The Miss Bennets Set Forth
by SwordSwallower17
Summary: Mrs. Bennet, determined to see her last two daughters married, arranges a holiday in Bath. Will foolish Kitty avoid the temptations of the Georgian city? Will solemn Mary ever lift her head from her books? Will Mrs. Bennet's nerves survive the adventure? Something of a sequel to "Miss de Bourgh in Bath," though previous reading is unnecessary.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** One of the things that spurs me to write fanfiction is my ever-present fascination with side characters; that is, the sisters and cousins and distant friends and other "extras" who surround the main characters of just about any story. Sometimes these obscure characters will get a mention in the epilogue, and sometimes they're just forgotten; but I always, inevitably, wonder what happens to them. A lot of people have come up with their own ideas for the younger Bennet sisters (especially Kitty) which I really enjoy reading, and I've been wondering, since I started my first _Pride and Prejudice_ fiction, _Miss de Bourgh in Bath_, how my own version of their story might go.

This story is intended to follow _Miss de Bourgh_, but it is not necessarily a sequel; while many of the characters of that story will appear in this one (with varying degrees of prominence) you shouldn't need to have read _Miss de Bourgh_ in order to read—and, hopefully, enjoy!—_The Miss Bennets Set Forth_.

On a more personal note, and in the interest of full disclosure, I would like to state that I am a senior in college, enrolled in five courses, taking the maximum number of credits, writing a thesis and working as many hours as I can. In other words, I'm busy! I will always do my best to update in a timely manner, but sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day, and I apologize in advance for any weeks-long waits you may have to endure between updates. I promise, it's for a good reason!

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

The first child of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy was, as Mrs. Darcy had privately expected, a daughter: little Sophia Darcy. She was a charming infant, with her mother's clever gray eyes and her father's soft dark curls, and everybody who saw her declared her to be the most winning creature they had ever beheld.

Mrs. Darcy's mother, the estimable Mrs. Bennet, had of course situated herself at Pemberley for the duration of Elizabeth's confinement, and had cooed and fussed over the child with more enthusiasm than anybody else, for while Sophia was not Mrs. Bennet's first grandchild, the young Wickhams had all been born out of the reach of their doting grandmother. Thus, little Sophia received not only her own allotment of kisses and cuddles, but also the shares that would have belonged to little George and little Frances, if only they did not live in the North.

Mrs. Bennet's daughters, Mary and Katherine (called Kitty), had been fortunate enough to accompany their mother into Derbyshire, to tend their sister during her confinement. Mrs. Bennet also hoped that at least one of them might catch the eye of some gentleman in the Darcys' neighborhood, and was encouraged to hear that Elizabeth had also invited some friends of hers from Bath to spend the autumn at Pemberley.

Her disappointment, upon discovering that none of these friends were single gentlemen, was short-lived, for Mrs. Bennet was an eternally optimistic woman. Besides which, she privately held that any new acquaintance was likely to expand her daughters' prospects; who could tell what eligible bachelors might number among the connexions of Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, or Mr. and Mrs. Hart, or young Miss Hart (the gentleman's sister)? Indeed, upon discovering that there existed a second Hart brother, a young man currently studying to join the medical profession, Mrs. Bennet resolved that the acquaintance must be maintained. With this happy thought to carry with her, Mrs. Bennet enjoyed her time at Pemberley very much indeed.

Kitty and Mary similarly enjoyed their time at Pemberley, albeit for very different reasons. Although she was disappointed at the lack of young bachelors in the party (for she took great pleasure in flirting), Kitty was delighted to be introduced to Georgiana Darcy and to Rosamond Hart, both of whom were near her own age. She immediately approved of Miss Hart, who possessed a calm, amiable temperament, in addition to a talent for easy conversation. Miss Darcy was rather more difficult, for she had neither Rosamond's serenity, nor Kitty's own joviality; but under their influence, she grew gradually less shy and retiring, and when Kitty left Pemberley, Georgiana was even bold enough to give her a sisterly embrace, when she had greeted her with nothing more than a timid nod and a curtsy.

There was nothing Kitty found so exhilarating as making new friends, for she had always adored that rush of affection and admiration that colors those first weeks of friendship. She spent every spare moment with Georgiana and Rosamond, and enjoyed each conversation with them more than the last. She was delighted to find that both of her friends performed beautifully upon the pianoforte (though she had never cared for music before); that the two of them shared a taste in novels, which they quickly spread to her (though she had never been a great reader); that Rosamond was an excellent dancer, and Georgiana an excellent artist; and that none of them had any great love for History.

In addition to Georgiana and Rosamond, Kitty was pleased to make the acquaintance of Colonel Fitzwilliam, a cheerful young gentleman, and his pleasant wife, who was only a few years older than Kitty herself. Mr. Hart, a barrister, shared his sister's good nature, and Kitty could not help thinking that if he had been unmarried, she could very easily have fallen in love with him, at least for a week or so. He was not unmarried, however; his wife was the former Miss Anne de Bourgh, cousin of the Darcys and of Colonel Fitzwilliam, whom Kitty had heard described (by Maria Lucas) as a weak, sickly-looking little creature, and (by Elizabeth) as very proud and ill-humored. But some changes had clearly been wrought in Miss de Bourgh since she had become Mrs. Hart, for she was quite agreeable, and a very dear friend to Rosamond and to Georgiana—even she and Elizabeth appeared pleasant to one another, though their relationship was hardly an affectionate one. Furthermore, her devotion to her husband, and his love for her, was very apparent. (Georgiana whispered to Kitty that they had married against the wishes of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had banished Anne from Rosings Park as a punishment; Kitty thought she had never heard anything so romantic.) With such stories and characters to entertain her, Kitty's days at Pemberley were a whirl of chatter and laughter, and she was very sorry to leave.

Mary had no interest in Pemberley's inhabitants. Being herself of a quiet, rather standoffish disposition, she was never able to have a conversation with Miss Darcy; and Miss Hart's mild temperament caused Mary to wonder if she was not perhaps entirely dim-witted. In addition, Mr. Hart and Colonel Fitzwilliam were too lively for Mary to really enjoy their company, while Mr. Darcy's gravity intimidated her, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, though she was a married lady, reminded Mary a great deal of her silly younger sisters. Elizabeth was occupied in entertaining her guests and preparing for the birth of her daughter; Mary had never had a great deal in common with her mother; and Mrs. Hart, who was very recently married, was scarcely to be parted from her husband. Mary enjoyed Pemberley not for its people, but for what it offered: that is, a renowned library, and an excellent pianoforte.

The rest of the world might have seen Mary Bennet as quiet, plain, and wholly unremarkable, but Mary Bennet saw herself as a young lady of two prevailing passions: Music and Literature. She cared hardly at all for Art, and only a little for History, but Music and Literature were two topics which she felt she could claim as her own. She practiced every day upon the pianoforte at home, which was old and rather battered, and the opportunity to practice instead upon a first-rate instrument (a gift to Miss Darcy from her brother) was not to be missed. Similarly, she was delighted by the size and scope of Mr. Darcy's library, and by the frequency with which it was added to, though she could have wished for more books of sermons, which comprised her usual reading. And so she devoted her time at Pemberley to the pursuit of her great passions, much to the dismay of her sister Kitty.

"I simply can't understand what you find so _interesting_," Kitty complained one evening, when she had come to sit in her sister's room before bed. "I should be bored to death, if I spent so much time by myself. Do you never wish to _talk_ to people?"

"I see no purpose in discussing trivialities," Mary said sternly, "particularly when I share no common interests with the other party. I believe my time is better spent in private thought and study, in an attempt to better myself."

Kitty considered this for a moment. "Did you know," she said at last, "that Georgiana _and _Rosamond play the pianoforte?"

"I did," Mary replied stiffly. Indeed, she had heard both young ladies play, and had been forced to admit to herself that each possessed a skill quite superior to her own.

"And did you know," Kitty continued, feigning indifference, "that Rosamond _and_ Georgiana are very great readers?"

"I did," Mary answered, her irritation growing. It was true that Miss Hart was often to be found with a book in her hand, and that Miss Darcy took almost as much pleasure in Pemberley's library as she did.

"Then you have something in common with them," Kitty said, glancing up at her sister demurely.

"I have not," Mary snapped, "for I am sure neither of them has any true love of music; they play only as an _accomplishment_. And they do not read real books, Katherine—they read novels, which are frivolous and have no useful application. Our interests are entirely separate."

"Lord!" Kitty exclaimed, standing and making her way to the door. "You are very unkind, and I should think very unfair as well, and I declare it is no wonder you haven't any friends of your own. Good-night!"

She shut the door rather hard behind her.

Despite her sister's inability to understand, however, Mary was very pleased with the time she spent at Pemberley, and rather wished they did not have to leave so soon.

* * *

Yet leave they must, for in the weeks following the birth of little Sophia, it became quite clear that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy wished for some time alone with their daughter. Though she was hardly an insightful woman, Mrs. Bennet was nonetheless a mother herself, and understood the desire to enjoy one's children before they grew old enough to play upon one's nerves; and so she and her daughters, the last ones to leave, made an uncharacteristically tactful departure from Pemberley, and returned home to Hertfordshire.

Mr. Bennet was glad to see his wife and daughters for at least an hour or so after they had returned. He was pleased that their journey had been a safe one, and was willing to listen to Mrs. Bennet's glowing descriptions of the baby, and her assurances that they had left Elizabeth in excellent health and even better spirits; but once the talk turned to the other guests at Pemberley, and who they were, and what they wore, and what they said, and what Mrs. Bennet thought of them, Mr. Bennet began to wish that he had Longbourn all to himself again.

Mrs. Bennet had a specific purpose in this conversational turn. The fact that Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and Mr. and Mrs. Hart, had all married within the past year, combined with the fact that they had all been living in Bath at the time of their marriages, combined again with the fact that between them, the two families seemed to have a very wide circle of acquaintance—all of these factors had combined to arouse in Mrs. Bennet the suspicion that Bath, not Meryton, was the place to be, if she wanted to see her two remaining daughters married.

She had already fixed on the younger Mr. Hart as ideal for either of the girls. She had no more knowledge of his character than what close observation of his brother and sister could tell her; but they both seemed perfectly rational and good-natured, which she found reassuring. Besides which, their father, Dr. Hart, was a well-respected physician in Bath, and his younger son was studying to become the same, which certainly meant that his prospects were excellent, even if he was not so rich as Mr. Darcy or Mr. Bingley, or so dashing as Mr. Wickham. Indeed, she hoped to call one of her daughters "Mrs. Hart" before the spring.

This, however, was not to be. Having made up her mind on the subject, the next object for Mrs. Bennet was to convince Mr. Bennet that an immediate departure for Bath was absolutely necessary, and it was here that she found the difficulty. Mr. Bennet had no qualms about sending his girls to stay at Pemberley, where they would be under the watchful eye of Elizabeth, or Netherfield, where they would be attended by Jane; but Bath was quite a different matter. He himself refused to go, under any but the very direst circumstances, and was unwilling to send his children without him. Mr. Bennet had once before allowed a daughter to travel unsupervised by her family, and he was not anxious to repeat the experience.

"Oh, Mr. Bennet," Mrs. Bennet cried disdainfully. "Bath is not Brighton, and they shall not be unsupervised; _I_ shall attend them!"

"And you will marry them off to the first handsome man who looks in their direction, whether he is a gentleman or no," Mr. Bennet replied. "No, my dear, they marry good men, or not at all."

Mrs. Bennet exclaimed that she was perfectly capable of finding decent husbands for her own children, whatever Mr. Bennet might think; and anyway, one could not meet good men in such a provincial town as Meryton, for all of the good ones were married already. Mr. Bennet retorted that it seemed they would not marry at all, then. At this, Mrs. Bennet dissolved into wails of frustration, and Kitty dissolved into tears.

"I am desperate to go to Bath," she sobbed to Mary. "I shall die if I do not visit the Pump-room before I am too old to enjoy it."

"I have no desire to go anywhere," Mary replied, rather smugly.

It was true, she did not; for, as has been mentioned, she had very little opinion of any of their new Bath acquaintance, and found the idea of living in a bustling, noisy, crowded town thoroughly unappealing. She much preferred Hertfordshire, with its fields and its farms, where she could spend an entire day reading, uninterrupted, and was only obliged to attend a ball once every month or so. She hoped her father would remain firm.

Yet it was difficult for him to do so, under his wife's relentless pleas and demands. Mrs. Bennet reminded him that she had never obliged him to take her to London, for she knew how he despised it; could he not then grant her this one favor, which would not trouble him in the slightest? She warned him against resigning his two remaining children to spinsterhood, for they were sure to grow very bitter, and to die young as a result. She threatened to become very ill indeed, and throw the entire house in an uproar, if she were not given her way. She protested that he did not trust his daughters enough, nor did he trust her, and declared herself deeply wounded. She promised him that she should take every precaution against meeting "the wrong sort," and assured him that their acquaintance in Bath was all of a very sensible, attentive kind, who would not allow their daughters to sink into wickedness. She moaned that her poor nerves could not bear such unfairness, and sighed at her own foolishness for having married such an unfeeling man. She wept, she begged, she argued, she coaxed, she waxed lyrical and she feigned swooning fits, until at last, in order to get some peace, Mr. Bennet agreed to write a letter to Elizabeth, questioning her on the prudence of the matter.

"Whether or not her decision shall have any bearing on mine, remains to be seen," he warned his wife, but Mrs. Bennet was so pleased that she flung her arms about him and kissed his cheeks, and he turned rather red.

Mary's heart sank, and Kitty danced about the parlor.

Sophia had been born in the beginning of December; the Bennets had returned to Longbourn in the middle of January; and Mrs. Bennet's persuasive wiles had lasted until the end of March. It was another fortnight before Mr. Bennet received Elizabeth's reply, which Kitty carried to him with trembling hands. He opened it in his study, read it with a furrowed brow, and then strode out into the parlor, where the ladies of the house were all attempting to act naturally.

"Lizzie writes," he began grandly, "that springtime in Bath is a time of much gaiety and flirtation. She informs me some young ladies are apt to lose their heads over the amusements of the Baths and the Assembly Rooms, and that the place is always very full of young men, not all of whom possess the best intentions."

He eyed them austerely. Kitty, her hands at her mouth, stifled a sob.

"However," Mr. Bennet continues, "she also claims that when the Season is over, the city is a changed place. She tells me that its inhabitants appear to regain their senses, and that fewer unsuitable marriages are made in the summer and autumn months than at any other time in Bath. Furthermore, according to our Lizzie, the names you have repeated to me incessantly, Mrs. Bennet—that is, the Fitzwilliams and the Harts—are families of good reputation, and she has excellent opinions of those family members with whom she is acquainted."

Mrs. Bennet looked as though she wanted to interject her own excellent opinions of them, but wisely held her tongue.

"For that reason," Mr. Bennet went on, "I have decided that a stay in Bath during the late summer, and perhaps into the autumn, cannot reasonably be expected to bring about our family's ruin."

Kitty let out a squeal.

"But you must promise me, Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Bennet went on, "that you will not wed Kitty or Mary to any gentleman until I have met him myself; that you will not allow Kitty to chase after red-coats, as is her wont; that you will not spend every hour of every day in the Pump Room; and that you will allow yourself to be guided by the opinions of those who know the city, and its inhabitants, better than you do."

Whether or not Mrs. Bennet heard any of this, is debatable, for Kitty was dancing about the room again and Mary was declaring very loudly that she did _not_ want to go, while Mrs. Bennet herself was considering, out loud, the need for a new wardrobe for each of the girls, and wondering where they might procure lodgings, in order to be as close as possible to the Pump Room and its environs.

"_I_ will arrange your lodgings," Mr. Bennet said firmly, over his wife's chatter, and she turned to him, beaming.

"How kind you are, Mr. Bennet, to take such a task off my shoulders! How good you are to your daughters! We shall never want for any thing anymore—an autumn in Bath! I declare Lady Lucas will be quite green with envy! Though I could have wished that we were going to be there for the Season; still, I suppose it cannot be helped. I am glad Lizzie has such a good head on her shoulders, and does not worry so about things of no consequence!"

Mr. Bennet, already tired of the happy scene being played out in his parlor, retired to his study.

* * *

But what were they to do until August? Kitty's delight soon faded into irritation that she should be made to wait so long, and for several days she stormed about the house, setting things down hard and slamming doors, until Mr. Bennet reminded her that she did not have to go at all, and her sweet disposition made a swift return.

She occupied her time the way she always had, before she had ever even thought of going to Bath: she visited the Lucases at Lucas Lodge, her aunt Philips in Meryton, and Jane at Netherfield. Both Maria Lucas and Mrs. Philips could be relied upon to declare supreme jealousy over Kitty's good fortune, much to her delight. Jane was less envious, but was always willing to listen to Kitty's fantasies (in which she was inevitably courted by some enchanting young duke, and became the toast of Bath society).

When she was not visiting, Kitty spent her time in Meryton, usually with Maria Lucas at her side. The militia had not returned for the summer, but nonetheless there were always people to watch, and handsome apprentices and shop assistants to giggle over. She spent all of her money on ribbons and bonnets in preparation for her journey, much to Mary's disgust.

"You know you shall buy even more trinkets when we are _in_ Bath," Mary said. "What is the point of buying them now?"  
Kitty felt certain that her sister's case was hopeless.

She did manage to sit still long enough to write a very short letter to Rosamond, wishing her a happy birthday (Rosamond and young Mr. Hart, who were twins, turned twenty in May) and informing her that they would be in Bath in August. Rosamond's reply, much longer and rather better-written than Kitty's note, expressed all her happiness at the prospect of their reunion, and assured her that they should be seeing Bath at its best, when the trees were beginning to change color and the fashionable families who crowded the streets in the spring had left the city.

Kitty, naturally, read the letter aloud to her sister; and Mary was glad to hear that the city should be less busy than it was in the spring, though she still had no desire to go.

Mary spent her summer (her "remaining months," as she tended to think of them), absorbing what she could of Hertfordshire. She took long, thoughtful walks, during which she attempted to console herself with philosophy. She practiced her pianoforte for hours at a time, until Kitty shouted at her or her mother complained about her nerves or her father demanded quiet. She read her sermons and began making lists of which ones should be packed. She avoided any thought of balls and assemblies, of card-parties and dinner-parties, and reminded herself that Bath was also famed for its concerts. She made no efforts to prepare herself for the social rigors which she was to undergo, for she knew only too well that any preparation was useless. Mary Bennet had many talents (or thought she did), but sociability was not one of them. She was quite prepared to sit stupidly at any party, taking comfort in the superiority of her own thoughts to everyone else's, and indulging no effort at trivial conversation.

Despite this odd sort of self-assurance, however, or perhaps because of it, Mary found herself greeting each morning with increasing trepidation, and even, as the summer stretched into June and July, with dread. The peace and tranquility of the country grew ever more poignant in her mind as she compared it to the impending noise and commotion of Bath; she began to think of each hour at the pianoforte, each quiet moment alone with her sermons, as the last she should ever enjoy. She even began to miss, preemptively, the unhurried activity of Meryton; the sight of a farmer's wife or a red-cheeked country child was almost enough to move her to tears. Mary was homesick before she ever left home; she could only imagine how dreadful she would feel when she was far away.

"Oh, you are never pleased with anything," Kitty said scornfully, when Mary confessed her anxiety. "How silly you are being! You have spent nearly twenty years at Longbourn; surely you can spare a few months for Bath."

"But won't you miss Jane, and Aunt Philips, and Maria?" Mary pressed, determined to make her sister at least half as unhappy as she was. She was disgruntled when Kitty only waved a hand dismissively.

"I can write to them, and they to me; and I daresay I shall be too busy to miss anyone. Besides, Rosamond is there, and she is quite as amusing as Maria. And think only of all the new acquaintance we shall meet! I am sure it will be such a thrill!"

She laughed. Mary muttered, "I am sure it will be a great disappointment," but Kitty was not listening anymore.

* * *

They left Longbourn on the third day of August, amid a great deal of disorder and confusion. Kitty had left her packing until the morning of their departure, and was in tears trying to fit her yellow muslin gown into an already overstuffed trunk; while Mrs. Bennet, having forgot four of her hatboxes, shrieked for the post-chaise to stop almost as soon as it started. Mary, meanwhile, spent the entire morning declaring her great desire to stay at home, and insisting that she should loathe every minute spent in Bath, until she had worked herself into a state almost matching that of her tearful sister, and was only slightly comforted by the embrace of her father, and his assurance that loathing, being a strong sentiment, was preferable to apathy, which was dull indeed.

At last, however, the three ladies and their luggage were squeezed into the post-chaise, which clattered away down the drive. Mary attempted to turn in her seat, to catch one last glimpse of Longbourn; but she was thwarted in this by Kitty, who was nearer the window, leaning out of it to wave good-bye to Mr. Bennet, while Mrs. Bennet leaned out of the other window at the same time, for the same purpose. Thus, Mary, looking from one window to the other, could see only the backsides of her mother and sister, who did not even seem to consider that she might like a turn at a window. Here, the tears welled up, and she folded her arms crossly at her chest, resigned to being miserable.

They stopped overnight at an inn near Oxford, and proceeded the next morning with only one stop to change the horses. The closer they came to Bath, the more Kitty seemed to dance in her seat; by the time they reached Chippenham, she was already leaning out of the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the city.

"It is still many miles away; you'll be leaning out of the window for hours," Mary said spitefully. Kitty ignored her, but Mrs. Bennet gave her a sharp look.

"Oh, do sit and read your sermons, Mary," she said.

"I cannot read in the carriage. It hurts my head."

"I don't think that's the carriage," Kitty answered unpleasantly, at last pulling herself back inside, "I am sure it comes from reading such dreary nonsense every day."

"I read in order to learn and to better myself," Mary snapped, "not so that I can discuss romantic drivel with all of the other shallow young ladies of the fashionable world."

"You read so that everybody will say how serious and clever you are; you are more concerned with your appearance than I am with mine!"  
"Indeed! Is that why you have packed three trunks, and I have only one?"

Kitty could think of no reply but to pinch Mary's arm, hard. Mary, very red in the face, began loudly lecturing on the unnatural shame of violence in young ladies, and how despised it was by gentlemen in particular; Kitty, laughing nastily, demanded how Mary could know _anything_ of what gentlemen did or did not despise; but Mrs. Bennet drowned them both out, by declaring stridently that her nerves were strained almost to the point of permanent injury, and that she was sure she should have another nervous attack if Mary and Kitty did not cease their noise at once.

Their ride into Bath was spent in frosty silence.

Despite her lingering resentment, however, Kitty was enchanted by her first views of the city. The creamy stone, the cobbled streets, the pretty bridges and the green hills and valleys, speckled here and there with flashes of red and gold: all seemed calculated to induce in Kitty a rapturous admiration, so that she soon forgot all about her quarrel with her sister, and leaned her head out of the window to better appreciate the sights. Mary, too, was at first forced to admire the beauty of Bath—but once they had come down into the valley itself, and were _in_ the city, rather than above it, the clamor and activity of its streets sent her scurrying back to her mental safe haven of melancholy and disdain.

Mr. Bennet had overseen the procurement of lodgings, suspecting rightly that his wife, left in charge of such matters, would be more likely to pay attention to fashionable addresses than to concerns of budget or practicality. He had found them reasonably priced lodgings in Henry Street, which offered a fine sitting room, serviceable dining room, and two good-sized bedrooms. Though it was not Sydney Place, or even Queen Square, Henry Street was situated at an easy distance from Bath's primary attractions: the Pump-room, the Roman Baths, and the surrounding shops. Milsom Street was something of a longer walk, and they would perhaps be obliged to take a chair to the Assembly-rooms; but Kitty, upon discovering that the front windows of their house offered an ideal view of everybody else's comings and goings, could not bring herself to complain. (Mary noted, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that their apartments did not contain a pianoforte.)

So many people! was Kitty's first thought, as she climbed down from the carriage. It was a fine, breezy day, and the street was filled with people. Ladies walked by, arm-in-arm, in dresses that reminded her a great deal of Mr. Bingley's stylish sisters; some were escorted by gentlemen, all of whom struck her as very dashing. Merchants, tradesmen, shoppers and social-callers hurried by on their private business, ducking in and out of shops and houses. Doors opened and shut; greetings were called across the street; carriages and Bath-chairs rushed by. Never before had Kitty seen so much activity—and, furthermore, never before had she seen so many gentlemen, all in one place. Her sister Lydia had once assured her that Brighton was the place to get a husband; but now, as Kitty gazed down Henry Street, Bath was seeming more and more likely.

Mrs. Bennet appeared to echo her thoughts, for at that moment she whispered, "Look at all the gentlemen, my love! We shall surely find you a husband here!"

Kitty giggled so much that she could not form a reply.

The disorder and confusion which had heralded the previous day were now called upon again, for there were trunks and hatboxes to be brought in, gowns to be unpacked, and squabbles to be had. Kitty had shared a room with Lydia for much of her life, but recently had grown accustomed to having her own; and Mary, though she had always occupied the smallest room in the house, had nonetheless had it all to herself. Neither of them looked forward to sharing a room, and Kitty immediately offended Mary by taking up all of the space in the closet and most of the space in the wardrobe with her clothes, leaving Mary, whose trunk was unfortunately brought in last, with only a few inches of space for her own. Mary scolded Kitty for her selfishness, and began unceremoniously pulling dresses out of the closet; Kitty cried that it was Mary who was selfish, and that it was not her fault that she had more clothes; Mary responded that it certainly _was_ Kitty's fault, and argued that she would be happy to utilize the smaller closet, if Kitty restricted herself to the wardrobe. Kitty snapped that her clothes did not _fit_ in the wardrobe, and that Mary was being entirely unfair; and here Mary lost her temper, and said some very unkind things about her sister, which ought not be repeated. (Mrs. Bennet, safe in her own room, hummed a tune to herself in order to drown out the sounds of the argument.)

At length, a compromise was reached; but by then it was dinner-time, and certainly too late for visiting. Mrs. Bennet, who had hoped to visit the Harts (in order to catch a glimpse of her future son-in-law) was disappointed, and chided the girls for their laziness. They dined quietly, too tired for much conversation, and spent a dull hour in their unfamiliar sitting-room. Kitty, sitting by the window, amused herself with watching the street, and reporting the activities of everybody on it; Mary attempted to read, but found the city noise distracting.

Bedtime, as is usual after such an arduous journey, came early. Mrs. Bennet fell asleep immediately, for her nerves were exhausted. Kitty tossed and turned a bit, for she was excited, and kept sitting up to look out of the window again; but, at length, she fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. And then it was only Mary who was left awake.

The noises of the house were strange to her, and the noises of the street outside even stranger. Mary had never been so homesick—for crickets, for owls, for the rustle of leaves. She started every time a carriage rattled past, its wheels noisy on the cobblestones; she imagined every voice, every door-slam, to be coming from within their own lodgings. She feared robbers and murderers, and shut her eyes against the spectre of a madman at the door. She heard a dog bark, and imagined it was the Lucas' dog, across the fields at Lucas Lodge; but then it was joined by another dog, and another, until it sounded for a moment as though every dog in the city was barking—and then they fell silent. Mary felt as though she had been lying awake for hours. She could not make herself comfortable on her bed. The mattress was too soft and the pillow too stiff, and the cover was too thick for August; she flung it off, but then she was too cold, and pulled it back again. Another carriage clattered by, and she jumped. Someone in the street let out a shout, and then someone else let out a noisy laugh, and Mary despised them for their unruliness. She wished she had not put out the light, for then she could read, but Kitty had insisted. She wished Kitty would stop shifting, for her bed creaked every time she did so.

"Kitty," she hissed through the darkness, "are you awake?"

There was no response. Mary had whispered to her sister with the intention of rebuking her, if she replied, for moving too much; but Kitty's silence was infinitely worse than the creaking of her bed, and Mary, who had always prized her solitude, suddenly felt very much alone. She turned her head into her pillow, and felt tears roll down her cheeks.

Sleep, thankfully, was not far behind; and Mary was surprised to find that her dreams, though she would not remember them distinctly, were far pleasanter than her waking thoughts would have suggested.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the kind reviews! I'm so glad to see some of you who read _Miss de Bourgh_ are interested in this story as well. I was a little bit nervous (okay, super nervous) about trying a sequel, even if it isn't really a proper sequel, and everybody has been lovely and encouraging. You guys really are fabulous!

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

Kitty Bennet had never been an early riser, but she opened her eyes, on her first morning in Bath, with none of her usual sluggishness. Sunlight was streaming in through the tall windows, and Kitty sat up in her bed to press her face to the glass. Her heart raced, and she threw back her covers, all but dancing to the wardrobe.

She dressed quickly, careful not to wake her sister, still sleeping soundly in the other bed. Mary had been excessively disagreeable of late, indeed ever since the scheme of coming to Bath was first proposed, and Kitty was eager to enjoy her first moments in the city (the previous evening did not count, for she had only just arrived) without her sister ruining them. She pulled on her bonnet, spencer, and gloves, and hurried out of the room.

Kitty was the first of the Bennet ladies to rise, and so the house was quiet; but the world outside was not. Despite the early hour, merchants and their assistants were opening their shops, and a few of the Bennets' neighbors were already emerging from their houses, parasols held aloft in the sunshine. Kitty stood on the front step for a moment, surveying the scene breathlessly.

She had never been to London, or Brighton, or any of the other fashionable places. As the fourth of five children, in a family whose living, while comfortable, was hardly luxurious, Kitty's opportunities for travel had been limited; Pemberley was the farthest she had ever been from home. There had once been talk of sending her to stay with her aunt and uncle Gardiner, in Cheapside, as a consolation for her not having been invited to Brighton—but this, of course, was before Lydia's elopement, which her father had interpreted as a sign that his youngest daughters, so long scolded by their elder sisters for their frivolity, were indeed not to be trusted. Kitty naturally found this utterly unfair, and had complained about it very bitterly, with a great many tears; but none of this had ever made any difference to her father's opinion.

For a young lady of eighteen, desperate for romance and excitement, who yearns for new faces and new adventures; for a young lady who has pored over the London fashion plates for which her aunt Philips sends away every season, and has taken care to practice her dancing at every opportunity; for a young lady who delights in laughter and flirtation, and is never happier than when she is on the arm of a gallant officer in a red coat; for such a young lady, the countryside is unbearably confining. This, Kitty felt, was what her father did not understand.

(She was of course mistaken—Mr. Bennet understood this only too well, and it formed a great part of his reluctance to send Kitty away from Longbourn. Yet he also understood, though grudgingly, that a young lady deprived of new experiences can never achieve her full potential, and it was this knowledge which had at last convinced him that a few months in Bath could do no great harm.)

But at last Kitty was away—away from Longbourn, from Meryton, from Hertfordshire. Kitty's dreams that night had been of Bath: of the Pump-room and the Roman Baths, of the canal, of Milsom Street, of the tea-shops and of a great many glittering ballrooms. She had danced with dashing soldiers, tall dark-eyed Lords and Sirs, one or two gentlemen who bore a striking resemblance to the elder Mr. Hart, and even a foreign prince with a gold crown upon his head. Though she had not yet met any of these fancied suitors, she was pleased to find that the real waking city, in appearance at least, lived up to her expectations. Bath was perfect; walking lightly down the street, she found pleasure in everything she saw. The ladies were smartly attired, the gentlemen invariably handsome, and the shop windows teeming with objects of interest. The sun gleamed brilliantly on the white stone, and the sky was a crisp late-summer blue. Kitty felt rather lightheaded with happiness.

The eastern end of Henry Street met Manvers Street, and Kitty, unwilling to go much further lest she should lose her bearings, stood for a moment on the corner. Manvers Street was a much larger thoroughfare, and much busier; carts and carriages raced up and down, while men and women passed Kitty hurriedly, their footsteps and voices echoing softly. There was a cheerful hum to the city, an agreeable rhythm which Kitty found soothing. She craned her neck, to see if she could catch a glimpse of the river, but it was too far away; so she contented herself with watching the people instead.

At length, however, the insistent rumbling of her stomach reminded Kitty of the early hour, and she hurried home.

* * *

The Bennet ladies breakfasted noisily, though there was a noticeable imbalance of conversation. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty prattled over one another—about their plans for the day, about the families they were going to call on, about whose names they should find on the Pump-room register—while Mary sat, silent, picking at her food, until Mrs. Bennet rebuked her for her sulky manner.

"I am sure you are the most ungrateful young lady I ever saw," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, eyeing her daughter crossly. "I declare there are dozens of girls in Meryton who would prefer your present situation to their own."

"Then we are equally unfortunate, for I would much prefer to be back in Meryton," Mary replied irritably.

Mrs. Bennet threw up her hands in frustration.

"Mamma," Kitty cried, "you mustn't pay Mary any mind—for we are in Bath, and we shall be happy here, even if _she_ will not."

"How right you are, my dear," Mrs. Bennet agreed, giving her younger daughter a beatific smile. "We must not let your sister's bad temper spoil our own merriment; we must make every effort to enjoy ourselves."

She afforded Mary a punishing glare, before turning her smile upon Kitty again.

Despite her eagerness to make the acquaintance of the promising young Mr. Hart, Mrs. Bennet had elected to call first upon the Fitzwilliams, who lived in James Street. The Colonel's intimate friendship with Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy was the closer connexion, and demanded the greater courtesy—besides which, Mrs. Bennet hoped that Colonel Fitzwilliam's extensive military acquaintance might yield a second prospective son-in-law. It was a short walk, which led them close to the center of town, though, to Kitty's disappointment, they did not pass the Abbey, or the Pump-room, or the Roman Baths, or any of the other sights worth seeing. The house was a pleasant one, very well kept, with a tidy parlor into which the Bennets were shown upon their arrival.

Here, Mrs. Bennet was pleased to find Mrs. Fitzwilliam already sitting with Mrs. and Miss Hart, in addition to two young gentlemen unfamiliar to her—one of whom, she deduced, must be Miss Hart's propitious brother. (She smiled benevolently at both of them.) Kitty was overjoyed to be reunited with her dear Rosamond, whose pleasure was no less, and the two young ladies greeted each other so happily, and with so many giggles and exclamations on Kitty's part, that it was several moments before Mrs. Fitzwilliam was able to make herself heard, and introduce the two gentlemen as Mr. Robert Hart and Mr. Oliver Finch.

Rosamond was a remarkably lovely girl, with gold hair, a delicate countenance, and large gray eyes; and her twin brother indeed resembled her in his coloring, though naturally his features were stronger and more masculine, and he was at least a foot taller than his sister (who was, it must be admitted, of a rather petite stature). Kitty was quick to notice his broad smile and fair hair, which reminded her a great deal of his elder brother, and she afforded Robert Hart her most charming smile as she curtsied. She was disappointed to see that he only gave her a polite bow in return.

Oliver Finch was the cousin of Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who, orphaned at a young age, had been raised in his family; indeed, the lady's first introduction to Colonel Fitzwilliam had come about because one of the Finch brothers had served in the colonel's regiment some years ago. This Mr. Finch, the youngest son of the family (he could not have been older than four-and-twenty), was not a soldier, but a clergyman, who had recently been named curate of one of the smaller parishes in Bath. Looking at him, however, Kitty wondered that _he_ was not the military brother—Oliver Finch was taller even than Mr. Hart, and brawny, with shoulders that looked too wide to fit into a curate's robe. He was undoubtedly handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and Mrs. Bennet privately decided that he might do very well for whichever of her daughters did not marry Mr. Hart.

The party sat down again. Kitty claimed a seat at Rosamond's side, impatient to hear her friend's news of the summer and even more impatient to relate her own; Mary, who had no interest in anybody's conversation, was disgruntled to find herself jostled from the first seat she took.

"Let the married ladies sit together, my dear," Mrs. Bennet said sweetly, sitting demurely between Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "I see there is an empty chair by Mr. Hart."

Mary sighed, certain she should pass a very tiresome morning indeed.

Mr. Hart's first question was, of course, whether or not Miss Bennet liked Bath. Mary was not given to small talk, and was not in a humor to entertain polite remarks, and she answered, quite frankly, that she had not seen enough of it to form a complete opinion, but that she found it rather off-putting. To her surprise, Mr. Hart did not seem offended—in fact, he gave a short laugh.

"I had no anticipation of an honest reply, Miss Bennet, but I am grateful, for you have saved me a great many irksome pleasantries. I suppose I am not now obligated to ask you whether you have visited the Pump-room, or any of the other dull questions which are always repeated in Bath."

"I would not have an answer for you," Mary replied, rather nonplussed by his response.

"Thank God! Perhaps we may now have a true conversation."

Mary's interest was peaked, in spite of herself. "I am willing to make the attempt, sir, if you are."

"Tell me then, Miss Bennet, what it is that disturbs you about Bath."

Mrs. Bennet appeared to have overheard this request, for she gave Mary a very dark look, and a warning shake of the head; but Mary, feeling that it would be more polite to answer the question than to change the subject, ignored her. "Bath is too large for my tastes, Mr. Hart, and a great deal too crowded. I have no love of crowds; I always prefer an empty room to a full one. Besides this, I find the noise distracting."

"What is it distracting you from?"

"From my thoughts," Mary replied, though her mother was now gesturing reproachfully. "I believe careful self-examination to be essential for a full life, and it cannot be done when one is constantly agitated by noise. Furthermore, I find myself disgusted by the city's shallowness. The Pump-room, for example, is a building entirely devoted to spectacle: one goes only there to see and to be seen, which I believe is a waste of time that should be spent learning and improving one's mind. In a city built upon frivolity, there is no room for thought or reflection, which I believe to be critical if one hopes to better oneself."

It was the longest speech Mary had ever made to someone who was not a member of her immediate family, and Mr. Hart sat in silence for some moments after she had finished. At length, however, he replied:

"I am in agreement with much of what you say, Miss Bennet, concerning the problem of shallowness; but I would argue that one cannot improve oneself merely by thinking. Experience and practice are also necessary."

"The experience of a ball—the practice of promenading?"

"Perhaps; but I meant more generally the experience of unhappiness, and the practice of enduring unfortunate circumstances. It is often said that one learns the most from adversity. If indeed you find Bath so trying as you say, then this may be your greatest opportunity."

Mary had attempted to remind herself of this, over the previous months, but one's mental and moral superiority can often be as lonely as it is reassuring, and she had found little comfort in her virtuous misery.

"Besides," Mr. Hart continued, "perhaps you may find that there is something to be said for frivolity. People, you know, must be amused."

"I disagree," Mary said haughtily. "I have never needed amusement."

"I am sure you have not," Mr. Hart replied, but there was something in his tone which hinted to Mary that he may have been laughing at her. "And what would you prefer, then, to Bath? A country village?"

"Not necessarily, though a village would be better," Mary answered, rather indignantly, for she did not take well to being laughed at. "I would prefer any quiet place—green, and tranquil, where one can be left alone in peace."

"I am often of your mind. As a student of medicine, I can tell you that certain studies have been performed, which show that men and women who spend their lives in the country quite often live longer than their city cousins."

"I am not surprised," Mary said, a little appeased. "And I am sure that farmers and shepherds are generally found to be morally superior to shopkeepers and publicans."

"I could not speak to that," Mr. Hart admitted, but the mocking tone had returned. Mary was glad to have found Robert Hart a good deal more serious-minded than his sister, but she could have wished that he was not so sardonic.

Kitty, for her part, was having a rather less weighty conversation with Rosamond. She was eager to hear all she could of how her friend had spent the Season in Bath—whom she had met, which balls she had attended, what she had worn, which scandals she had witnessed. Rosamond, upon discerning the general trend of her friend's questions, could not help but laugh.

"I do not live so glamorously as you seem to think," she teased. "I am sorry to confess that I spend a great deal of time writing letters, and a great deal of time upon the pianoforte; and when I can be prevailed upon to leave the house, it is usually only to call on Theo and Anne" (she indicated Mrs. Hart) "or occasionally to visit a book-shop."

Kitty was insistent. "But you must have gone to the Assembly Rooms; does not your father have a subscription?"

"He does, and indeed we attended quite often this year. There were several excellent concerts held."

"And balls," Kitty returned, her impatience growing.

"And balls," Rosamond agreed teasingly. "But I must disappoint you, Kitty, for I do not think I danced with more than three earls this Season, and only one member of the Royal Family."

Kitty made a face at her, but could not help laughing.

"And you, Mr. Finch?" she added genially, for that gentleman, seated on Rosamond's other side, had heretofore been silent. "Did you enjoy the Season?"

"Oh—yes," he replied, looking startled at Kitty's address. "Yes, I enjoyed it very much."

He made no further reply, but cast his eyes down to his lap.

"Did you attend any assemblies in Hertfordshire?" Rosamond asked, after a moment of silence.

"La! None that were notable; balls are different in the country, you know, for there are never any new faces—unless there are officers in the village, or somebody has cousins to stay. But really it is only ever the same people."

"That is not so different from Bath," Rosamond said lightly. "One encounters many of the same people here, over and over again; there are only more of them."

"But I think it must be better, for everybody is so fashionably dressed, and it is not nearly so provincial," Kitty insisted. Rosamond laughed.

"Kitty, I am afraid you are mistaking us for London, and I hope you shall not be disappointed; Bath is really only a very small city, and not half so cosmopolitan as you seem to expect. Do you agree, Mr. Finch?"

"Yes—certainly," Mr. Finch agreed, blushing. Rosamond smiled at him.

"Of course it is not London; Papa would never have let me come, if it was," Kitty sighed. "But neither is it Meryton, and I am determined to be amused while I am here."

"I am glad to hear it!" Rosamond exclaimed. "Then I shall do my best to amuse you; should you like to walk to the Pump-room today? Anne and I had thought we might spend some time there, for we have not gone in a fortnight at least."

Kitty was thrilled at the proposition (though amazed that Rosamond could have stayed away from the place for an entire fortnight), and agreed readily, declaring that her mother and sister would certainly be glad to join the party.

"Or Mamma will, at any rate," she added ruefully. "Mary will likely roll her eyes, and complain all the way there. She has been horrid all summer, and only worse since we left Longbourn."

"Perhaps she is merely homesick," Rosamond said gently. "I am sure that her spirits will improve, once she has begun to enjoy herself."

"Mary never enjoys herself," Kitty assured her. "She considers enjoyment to be imprudent, and a waste of time.—Will you walk with us, Mr. Finch?"

Mr. Finch flushed, and stammered a response; and Kitty, who had originally considered him quite as attractive as Mr. Hart (the elder or the younger), began to think that he was really in fact very tiresome, and certainly not the dashing beau for which she had hoped. For all her romantic nature, Kitty was not so shallow that she could fall in love with a handsome man of no conversation; she did not require eloquence, but articulacy, at least, was to be preferred.

Besides which, she thought wisely, he was obviously quite in love with Rosamond, and therefore it was no hardship for her to give him up entirely.

* * *

In the end, it was only the Bennets and the Harts who made their way to the Pump-room. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was expecting more callers, and Mr. Finch, his handsome face very red indeed, managed to inform them that he had some parish business to take care of, but that he had enjoyed making the Bennets' acquaintance, and hoped that they would meet again soon.

"I believe that speech quite exhausted him," Mr. Hart remarked to Kitty, as they left the Fitzwilliams' house. "You must have made an impression on him, Miss Bennet, or I daresay he would only have muttered 'Goodbye' and made his escape."

"Robert, do try and appear well-mannered," Rosamond chided him. "I have told Mrs. Bennet that you are a gentleman, and I should hate for her to discover that I have been lying."

"Oh! My dear Miss Hart," Mrs. Bennet cried, "you must make no apologies to _me_ for your brother's behavior; I daresay he is only a little high-spirited, as many gentlemen are!"

"Indeed," Mr. Hart said, "that is a kinder term than my sister generally uses."

But he was smiling, and Kitty, who for a moment had feared that the Harts' squabbling was serious, was relieved enough to ask Mr. Hart if _he_ had enjoyed the Season.

"I have been rather too busy with my studies to go about very much," Mr. Hart replied, to Kitty's disappointment.

"Oh—but I hope you will not spend all your time at study, while we are here," Kitty said sweetly. "It would be very unkind of you, for Mamma and I have been eager to make your acquaintance, ever since Rosamond told us she had a twin. I have never met twins before." Mr. Hart smiled, to her delight (though she would rather have heard him laugh).

"You will soon find that we are no different from any other pair of siblings, except that we have rather less patience with one another."

"I am sure that is not the case, for you and your sister are both so good-natured!"

"It is all an act, I assure you," Mr. Hart said, with a confidential air. Kitty giggled, her heart fluttering. Though he was not an officer, she could not help thinking Robert Hart very agreeable indeed.

Mary would rather have been walking with Mr. Hart; as far as she was concerned, he was the only member of the party with any true depth of mind, and the only one with whom she could have a truly satisfying conversation. However, Kitty's hold on his arm was secure, and Mrs. Hart and Miss Hart were walking ahead together, so that Mary was obliged to walk with her mother. She was glad, at least, that she should not have to answer any insipid questions about whether she were enjoying Bath, and if she looked forward to the first ball at the Assembly Rooms; but, on the other hand, she was forced to endure Mrs. Bennet's admonishments on her conduct that morning.

"I daresay you were very rude to Mr. Hart," Mrs. Bennet said, hardly bothering to lower her voice. Mary reddened, and was glad that Kitty's chatter seemed to be sufficiently holding that gentleman's attention. "You must have made him very uncomfortable indeed—the poor man! I am sure he shall want nothing more to do with you, and who could blame him? I only hope you have not prejudiced him against your sister, as well!"

"Mr. Hart did not appear upset," Mary protested, more quietly. "Indeed, he even thanked me for my honesty."

Mrs. Bennet's eyes narrowed. "An honest young lady is hardly an amiable one, and I am sure you were very insolent. I shall wonder if I am able to sleep at all tonight, for all the damage you are doing to my poor nerves!"

She said this last very loudly, and at a moment when the conversation between Kitty and Mr. Hart had reached a pause. The two of them glanced back, Kitty with a smirk and Mr. Hart with an amused quirk of his lips. Mary, her face hot, averted her eyes, and attempted to look completely absorbed in studying the buildings they passed.

The Pump-room was large, with high ceilings and tall windows which offered an ideal view of the street outside. Kitty was unable to suppress a gasp as they entered. There were fashionable ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the room in twos and threes, laughing and calling to one another, and more parties seated near the walls. A band of musicians was situated in the alcove, playing a cheerful fast-paced tune that rose above the hum of voices.

"It is not very crowded today," Rosamond remarked. "I daresay we shall be able to find seats very easily."

Mary stared at her; to her, the room looked as crowded as any ballroom she had ever stood in.

"It is rather early, yet; and many of the families who came for the Season have left already," Mrs. Hart agreed. "Shall we sit?"

"I should like to take a turn—though I am hardly dressed for it," Mrs. Bennet declared, patting her bonnet nervously. "The girls and I shall join you in a moment or two, Mrs. Hart."

"I'll sit with you, Anne," Mr. Hart said.

"I should also like to sit," Mary cut in, glancing at her mother. To her surprise, Mrs. Bennet made no objection.

Rosamond's eyes had strayed to the pump. " I should like a glass of mineral-water," she said vaguely. "May I fetch one for anybody else?"

The others had scarcely given their polite denials before she had begun making her way across the room. Mrs. Bennet took Kitty's arm and swept her into the promenade, and Mary followed the Harts towards a cluster of empty chairs.

"I hope Rose is not feeling ill," Mrs. Hart commented, as they took their seats.

"I daresay she is feeling quite well," Mr. Hart assured her. "I am sure there is some less creditable reason for her abandonment."

Mrs. Hart smiled, and turned to Mary. "How are you enjoying Bath, Miss Bennet?"

"We have already established that Miss Bennet is not enjoying it," Mr. Hart put in. "She finds it too crowded, and the constant noise is not conducive to serious thought or self-reflection."

Mrs. Hart's brow wrinkled. "I am sorry to hear it. You must loathe the Pump-room especially, for crowds and noise are its particular domain."

"I believe _loathe_ is too strong a word," Mary said carefully, her mother's remonstrances lingering in her mind. "I must admit that such surroundings offer plenty of opportunity for the observation of people; and an understanding of mankind in general is essential for an understanding of oneself."

Mrs. Hart bit her lip. "I believe you are right," she said finally. "I suppose such is the reason we read novels, or visit the theatre. There are no stories which fascinate us so much as our own—as human stories, I mean."

"I am not interested in stories," Mary objected. "I am interested in lessons."

"And you do not think we can take lessons from stories?" Mrs. Hart said, rather shrewdly.

Mary was quite unable to reply for a moment. Mr. Hart smiled at her silence.

"I warn you, Miss Bennet, that Anne has grown very adept at arguing over the past year or so. It is a survival tactic, on her part—she is married to my brother Theodore, and he is a lawyer."

"And he is of a naturally quarrelsome temperament besides," Mrs. Hart added, laughing. "But I think I see your point, Miss Bennet: you believe in looking at things from a moral perspective, rather than merely seeking entertainment."

"I do not see the use in entertainment," Mary agreed. "I believe that one should not pursue any path which does not result in some education or improvement."

"I do not believe there is any such path," Mrs. Hart replied. She paused for a long moment, as if gathering her thoughts, and then continued slowly, "I have come to think of all life as an education. I think even the most meaningless moments may have their value."

Miss Hart reappeared at that moment, and took the seat on Mary's other side. This distracted the Harts from their conversation, for Mr. Hart took pleasure in pointing out that his sister carried no cup of mineral-water, despite her long absence.

"There was such a crush at the pump," Miss Hart declared. "I was forced to admit defeat."

"Yet you stood there for five minutes before doing so?"

"I kept thinking it would clear."

"And after waiting so long, you did not think it worth your time to wait two minutes more?"

"I did not wish to neglect Miss Bennet—"

"I hope you are not insinuating that Anne and I are neglectful."

"Do stop pestering her, Robert," Mrs. Hart reproached him, though she was smiling.

Mr. Hart grinned. "Who was at the pump, Rosamond, to so distract your attention? I do think you might have fetched a cup anyway, and at least feigned legitimacy."

His twin ignored him.

Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, was enjoying very much the opportunity to peer at the ladies and gentlemen they passed, and to examine the manners, and dress, and general appearance, of Bath's citizens. Kitty was no less captivated, and they had taken several turns about the room before they were able to have any conversation, so engaged were they in watching everybody else.

"Well, my dear," Mrs. Bennet whispered at length, "what do you think of our company this morning?"

"I think Mr. Hart very pleasant," Kitty replied eagerly, "and I am sure I shall fall in love with him very shortly."

"Quite as I had hoped! But I would warn you not to settle upon him just yet, for there is plenty of time for you to meet other gentlemen, and you may find another you prefer. What of Mr. Finch? I am certain I saw you talking with him."

Kitty waved a dismissive hand. "He is very shy, and can hardly say two words without blushing; besides, Mamma, he is madly in love with Rosamond, so he is no prospect."

Mrs. Bennet sighed. "I had thought as much, from watching him; and I suppose it was not to be expected, that every gentleman we met should prove a suitor. Well, if Miss Hart is to marry Mr. Finch, then at least she shall be unavailable to any other gentleman—for you know, my dear, that she is very pretty, and the sooner she is married, the better it will be for you and your sister. And I am glad you are already so fond of Mr. Hart. I had a suspicion, you know, that we might expect something from him."

Kitty agreed readily, and smiled, and asked her mother if they might now join the others.

The party spent a very agreeable hour in the Pump-room—agreeable, that is, to everyone except Mary; for while she had enjoyed her conversation with Mr. Hart that morning, and had even found her moment with Mrs. Hart rather interesting, a larger party was not conducive to meaningful talk. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty had no patience for discussions of morality or philosophy, and as to Miss Hart, Mary doubted very much whether that young lady had ever once had a serious thought. The general conversation was restricted to such trivial matters as the weather, and the Bennets' journey from Longbourn, and whether they liked their lodgings; and Mary, therefore, was obliged to remained silent and subdued. This was no more than she was accustomed to—but it seemed somehow worse at the cheerful and bustling Pump-room, and the longing for little Meryton reared its head again, worse than ever.

While Mary was uneasy, Kitty was exuberant. The Pump-room was everything she had wished for, and she could scarcely take her eyes from the elegant ladies and gentlemen promenading before them. The company was ideal: not only was the society of the twins engaging, but the Harts appeared to be acquainted with a great many of the people in the room, and introduced the Bennets to several more families within the span of an hour.

"My father is a physician, and my brother is a barrister," Rosamond explained with a smile, when Kitty commented upon her friend's large acquaintance. "Between the two of them, they have at some point looked after nearly every family in Bath—in one way or the other."

By the time they left the Pump-room, the Bennets' Bath acquaintance had expanded from the Fitzwilliams and the Harts, to include the Burkes, the Jameses, the Daltons, the Seabrooks, and the Wolfes. Dr. Hart and his son appeared to have taken excellent care of their clients, for the Harts received three invitations to dine (the Bennets were kindly included in each of them)—and from Mrs. Wolfe, to Kitty's great delight, an invitation to a ball, which that lady was planning to take place some days after the Sydney Gardens gala.

All of these invitations were enough to convince Mrs. Bennet that her scheme to come to Bath had been a brilliant one. In addition, she soon discovered, by careful questioning of Mrs. Hart, that nearly all of these families possessed at least one unmarried son; and she was sure that a great many more young bachelors would be present at Mrs. Wolfe's ball. She was able to leave the Pump-room with the certainty that their first morning in Bath had been a great success, and confident that both of her daughters would be married by the time they were obliged to return to Hertfordshire.

Kitty parted from her friend with only mild regret, for they agreed to meet on the following morning to go to Milsom Street, and Rosamond had agreed furthermore that she would take Kitty to her favorite shops—"A great many of which," she promised, "are quite unknown to those who only come for the Season, for they tend to keep to Milsom Street and never really explore." Kitty was elated at the prospect, for she had decided that her own clothes seemed rather outmoded in comparison with everybody else's, and she was sure that her mother would give her some money to spend for such a worthy purpose.

Mary, it must be said, was quite happy to go back to Henry Street, where she hoped to spend some time alone with her books.

* * *

If Kitty had been animated on her first night in Bath, it was nothing compared to her second. After supper, when the ladies had retired, Kitty annoyed Mary a great deal by spending several minutes dancing about the room, bumping into the wardrobe more than once and nearly knocking over the candle on the nightstand.

"You look ridiculous," Mary snapped at last, for she was attempting to read, "and you are disturbing my concentration. Go to bed."

"La! Nothing you say shall bother me now, Mary, for we have been invited to a ball, and I am sure I shall dance twice with Mr. Hart, and he shall fall in love with me. Do you not think he is the handsomest man you ever saw?"

"I suppose he is handsome," Mary admitted grudgingly, "but he is rather young to be falling in love."

"How unreasonable you are, Mary," Kitty laughed. "Young people can fall in love quite as easily as the old; why, Lydia married when she was sixteen, and the Hart twins are twenty!"

"Anyway," Mary sniffed, "I doubt he will dance with you; I daresay he has no inclination to dance. If you will recall, _I_ conversed more with him today than you did, and I am pleased to report that he seems very intellectual, and not at all given to such mindless pursuits."

Kitty groaned, and threw herself upon her bed. "You are blind, if you cannot see that he was only humoring you, with your tedious conversation about—about sermons, or whatever it is you talked about."

Mary grew rather red in the face. "He was _not_ humoring me, and we did not discuss sermons; but I am certain the subject of our discussion is quite beyond your comprehension, so I shall not trouble you with particulars."

"Thank you," Kitty answered, sitting up, "for I am sure it was the dullest thing in the world, and I would not hear your account of it for anything.—Lord! Mary, I am sure I am in love with him."

"You barely spoke to him," Mary replied drily.

"Of course I spoke to him; I walked with him all the way to the Pump-room, whilst you were walking with Mamma. He even gave me his arm! He is very much like his brother, is he not? What a lark it would be, to be Rosamond's sister! She is so very amiable, even if she is going to marry Mr. Finch."

"Indeed—are they engaged?" Mary did her best to sound uninterested, for she had a moral objection to gossip, but nonetheless she did like knowing things as much as anybody else did.

"Perhaps not _engaged_," Kitty said carelessly, "but he is in love with her; did you not see it? He could hardly take his eyes from her."

Mary was not at all certain of this, for the only times she had glanced at Mr. Finch, his eyes had been fixed firmly on the floor; but she did not have time to say anything, for Kitty's raptures had already continued:

"And only think, Mary—in a few years' time, he shall be _Dr._ Hart! Dr. and Mrs. Hart; how well that sounds! I think I should rather be a doctor's wife than anything, for it is such a fine title for a gentleman. Although I suppose it would be something to be a colonel's wife—or a captain's—I imagine anything would preferable to a 'Mr,' for one meets so many of those.—Do you not think fair-haired gentlemen to be twice as attractive as those with dark hair? I believe I shall always prefer fair hair over dark; not that it matters, for I am sure I am going to marry Mr. Hart. Won't Rosamond be pleased! But of course I shall not tell her until we are really engaged, for then it will be such a surprise!"

She continued in this vein for some time. Mary, exasperated at hearing the unsuspecting Mr. Hart so subjected to Kitty's silliness, at last blew out the candle, and pretended to be fast asleep, in order to make her sister stop talking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the looooong wait! It's been more than a little bit crazy—papers, projects, presentations, and my thesis deadline looming in the not-so-distant future…plus a few crises, some more major than others. But I finally have a minute to breathe, and of course I'm going to devote it to my favorite side-project.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

Kitty was horrified to wake to rain on the following morning, which meant that her proposed excursion with Rosamond Hart must surely be cancelled.

"We might as well be in Meryton!" she moaned, staring miserably out the window.

"Are you surprised that they have rain in Bath?" demanded Mary, with some asperity. "We have not left England, you know. We are only some miles west of home."

The elder Miss Bennet had passed another difficult night, kept awake by the unfamiliar noises and lights of the city, and her temper was not at its most genial. Her sister, to her credit, chose not to reply, in favor of running to the window on the other side of their sitting-room, as if the weather might be different at the back of the house.

"I for one don't mind the rain," Mary continued contemptuously. "I am glad to stay in the house all day; I was not at all looking forward to another silly promenade. There is very little about Bath that interests me."

"Oh, do hold your tongue, Mary," Mrs. Bennet snapped. "Shall we not have a moment of peace from your complaints? If you would think only of the damage you are doing to my poor nerves—!"

Mary returned sulkily to her book.

It is unlikely that the Bennet ladies could have endured each others' forced society for the entire day with any degree of grace; and so it was fortunate that, shortly after eleven, Kitty crowed that she saw sun breaking through the clouds. By noon, the rain had stopped entirely, and warm sunlight was glistening on the wet streets. A note sent round from Hart House informed Kitty that Rosamond would be delighted to meet her at Milsom Street in half an hour, if it was convenient.

Mrs. Bennet made no objection, and only warned Kitty to mind the mud, and hold her skirts out of the puddles, and so the afternoon found Kitty and Rosamond traipsing happily through the streets of Bath. It was useful, Kitty reflected, to have a friend who lived in the city all the time, for Rosamond knew side-streets and shortcuts, and was able to point out sites of particular interest, in addition to her intimate knowledge of the most interesting drapers' and milliners' shops. Within the first hour of their ramble, almost all of the money which Mrs. Bennet had given Kitty had been spent for two new bonnets, a new pair of gloves, and several new ribbons.

"When we have been here longer," Kitty said decisively, "I daresay Mamma and I will each want some new gowns; and perhaps Mary as well, though she never cares how she looks. But for now I think I shall buy only the necessities."

Rosamond, who had not bought anything, agreed that this was very sensible.

Sensible or not, however, Kitty was sorely tempted. Every window they passed betrayed some new glory to be beheld: hats and head-dresses decorated with jewels and feathers; miles of ribbon in every color one could imagine; luxurious silks and satins, painstakingly embroidered; glittering lockets, brooches and pocketwatches; bouquets of flowers spilling out of their vases; rows of sweet-smelling pastries and breads; even the bookshops looked inviting. More than once, Rosamond was obliged to take Kitty by the arm (gently, as was her wont) in order to draw her from a particularly captivating window.

"It is so very unlike Meryton," Kitty exclaimed, as Rosamond steered her carefully away from a display of cameos, "where there are only two or three shops worth going into. And you can never really find anything very fashionable. We are months behind London, in the country."

"We are not much better off in Bath," Rosamond said lightly. "But we do try not to mind it much."

"I wonder you can live here, and not buy something new every day! I am sure I shall have to buy at least one extra trunk when I leave!"

She did, however, manage to retain enough money for a cup of tea and a bun, and the two young ladies accordingly directed their steps to Sally Lunn's tea-room.

The little shop was crowded, as Rosamond told Kitty it generally was; but it was only a moment before they were able to squeeze themselves (and Kitty's packages) into a table near the window. Kitty was delighted to find herself with such an excellent view of the street, for she greatly enjoyed watching the ladies and gentlemen passing by on their way to and from the Pump-room and the Roman Baths, which were only around the corner.

They had not been seated for very long before a gentleman, apparently having caught sight of Rosamond from across the room, made his way to their table. Rosamond greeted him politely, and he sat down with them before she had even given the invitation. The gentleman was introduced to Kitty as a Mr. Alexander Price, and he started at hearing her surname.

"Bennet!" he cried. "Are you indeed the sister-in-law of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley?"

"I am," Kitty replied, a little nonplussed. "Are you acquainted with my brothers?"

The gentleman laughed. "Not acquainted—no, I don't know them myself. But I know _of_ them, of course, for everybody does in Town. And you are their youngest sister?"

"No, I am the youngest but one." Kitty's interest, however, lay elsewhere. "Are you from London?"

"Not originally; nobody, you know, is ever _originally_ from London. But I have been living in Marylebone for—oh—I suppose it has been four years now, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. So much happens there; there is always something to see, so many people to meet and places to go. I am of a temperament that must be amused, and my family's quiet country village was never sufficient." He smiled at her. "I suppose that makes me sound very thoughtless and foolish."

"You mustn't say so," Kitty cried, laughing, "for I am of the same temperament myself."

"Then I shall retract my statement, for I should hate to cause offense to the youngest-sister-but-one of two very respectable families; particularly when that sister is herself so very charming."

Kitty could not see what she had said that was so very charming; but it did not matter, for she was charmed. Mr. Price was young, and exceedingly handsome, with dark hair and _very_ blue eyes, and she could not help returning his smile.

"And why are you in Bath, sir?" she asked sweetly.

"To be honest, Miss Bennet," Mr. Price replied, widening his eyes and leaning closer to her, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "I am hoping to fall in love."

Kitty blushed, but giggled.

"I hope you are not laughing at me," Mr. Price exclaimed. "I am being perfectly truthful. I have decided that I have lived long enough as a bachelor, and I am determined to fall in love."

"To find a wife, you mean," Kitty corrected pertly.

"Indeed—but I shall not marry any woman whom I do not love. There must be passion, you know, and perhaps a hint of madness, in a marriage, or it is no good. I have a great dread of spending my days making polite conversation with my polite wife, when there are so many other things we could be doing."

Kitty giggled again, rather scandalized. "You ought to have come for the Season, Mr. Price, for I understand that that is when the true beauties are in Bath."

"I could conceive of any truer beauties than the ladies at this table," Mr. Price said gallantly. "Besides which, Miss Bennet, I was here for at least the end of the Season, and I loathed the spectacle. The Season is when vulgar marriage-minded mammas thrust their silly daughters upon any gentleman they see. It is only when the city is less fixated upon matrimony, that one may have any chance of falling in love."

"That is very poetic, Mr. Price," said Rosamond, who had till now remained quiet. "But I believe your tea has been served." She nodded at the table which Mr. Price had left.

"Of course, of course." Mr. Price stood, and bowed to the young ladies. "I shall trouble you no longer, Miss Hart. Miss Bennet—meeting you has been the greatest of pleasures, and I do hope we may see each other again soon."

Kitty, blushing very hotly, replied in kind, and with another bow, Mr. Price returned to his own table.

* * *

Kitty had spent the first part of the afternoon with her mind fixed upon bonnets and brooches, but whatever stray thoughts were left over had consistently wandered to the younger Mr. Hart. She had even spent a few moments surreptitiously studying Rosamond's features, discerning pleasing traces of her handsome brother, and imagining idly the day when she could call Rosamond her sister.

However, her introduction to Mr. Price quite banished Mr. Hart from her mind. Kitty's earlier daydreams of fair hair and gray eyes were replaced by dark hair and blue eyes, and though Mr. Price, to her best knowledge, had not the advantage of an amiable sister, he _did_ have a house in London, which entirely made up for it. Besides which, he was undeniably witty, and charming, and perhaps a little wicked, while Mr. Hart had only been agreeable; and Kitty's vanity was naturally gratified by the fact that Mr. Price had seemed far more interested in her than in pretty Rosamond. She fell out of love with Mr. Hart even faster than she had fallen in love with him, and by the end of the afternoon, she was convinced that Mr. Price was indeed the man whom she was destined to marry.

Out of some vague sense of discretion, she waited until they had left the noisy little tea-room before she broached the subject of Mr. Price with Rosamond, for she should be mortified if the gentleman were to overhear. But of course Rosamond must be questioned, and Kitty seized her opportunity almost as soon as they had stepped again into the street, and were wandering in the direction of Carlton Gardens, with the intention of calling upon Mrs. Hart.

"How do you know Mr. Price?" Kitty asked directly.

If she were a more prudent young lady, she might have posed the question casually; she might have feigned disinterest and, once the answer was received, she might have changed the subject to something else, before gradually turning the conversation back to Mr. Price. But of course Kitty was not prudent, and asked the question eagerly, without any pretense of indifference.

"Not very well," Rosamond admitted. "We possess some mutual acquaintance, and meet often enough in ball-rooms and at card-tables, but in truth I have not spent much time in his company."  
"Is he often in Bath?"

"I believe he generally comes down near the end of the Season, and stays for some time."

"What does he do here?" said Kitty keenly.

Rosamond smiled. "What anybody does, I suppose—dances, and dines, and visits the theatre. I do not think he comes expressly for his health, if that is what you meant."

"Does he study—or does he have a trade?"

"I have never heard him mention either. I have an idea that he inherited money from somebody, and that is what he lives upon, but I may be quite mistaken."

"Do you think he is rich? He must be, if he can afford to come to Bath every year."

"Not necessarily," Rosamond replied, "for if he were very rich, I imagine he should come for the entire Season, when we have more society here."

"But he must be rich enough to support a wife," Kitty said with conviction, "or he would not be looking for one. Has he any family?"

"I could not say; our conversation has never tended in that direction."

Kitty giggled. "Do you think him handsome?"

"Oh, to be sure," Rosamond said mildly.

This was not the resounding affirmative for which Kitty had hoped; but, she reminded herself, it was good that Rosamond did not seem particularly interested in Mr. Price, for she could never bring herself to steal a beau from a friend.

"And what of his character?" Kitty pressed. "I mean he is obviously very clever, and very amusing, and of excellent conversation. But what do you think of him?"

Rosamond met her eyes. "It is clear that you like him, Kitty; does it matter what I think?"

Her friend's grave tone surprised Kitty. "Of course it does," she replied, though rather hesitantly.

"I do not know enough of Mr. Price," Rosamond said, after a pause, "to have a strong opinion of him, one way or another. It is true that he has always been very pleasant when we have met. But I must confess I could not approve of his conversation this afternoon; it seemed terribly forward, particularly as he had met you only minutes before."

They walked silently for several minutes. Kitty was at first taken aback, then irritated, by Rosamond's reply. "I believe you are being quite unfair," she said at last, angrily. "I think he is only honest, and of a passionate nature. _I_ was not offended by his conversation. Anyway, manners do not matter one bit; I am sure there are some very immoral men whose manners are very gracious."

"I am sure you are right," Rosamond said, giving her a small smile. "And I did not say he was immoral; merely impertinent. But he is generally exceedingly agreeable."

Kitty was a little placated by this, and the young ladies walked on.

* * *

It would be untrue to say that Kitty's thoughts remained solely with Mr. Price for the rest of the week; Bath was too stimulating for such single-mindedness. There were calls to pay, shops to explore, and the Pump-room to be sat in. Mrs. Bennet insisted that a morning be spent in the Roman Baths, where she hoped the water might do something for her nerves; they dined once at Hart House, and twice with the Fitzwilliams; they were introduced to new acquaintance every day. The Season might be over, but Bath was hardly empty. Indeed, the weather remaining quite fine, there were still a great many people to be met with in the squares and the parks.

Amidst all these new acquaintances, of course, there were plenty of gentlemen, and Kitty was not so fixed upon Mr. Price as to be entirely immune to her own romantic nature. She fell into several passions over the next several days, picturing herself first as Mrs. Burke, then Mrs. Dalton, then Mrs. Hart (again), then Mrs. Seabrook. She decided that fair skin was exceedingly attractive in a man, but changed her mind when she met swarthy Mr. Turner; she surprised herself with a sudden fondness for red hair, produced by her introduction to handsome Mr. Archer; she began to favor green eyes over brown, but soon found that the brown eyes of Mr. Sanburne were quite as charming as the green eyes of Mr. Litton.

"You are ridiculous," Mary pronounced one evening, as Kitty swooned over her latest _amour_ (Mr. Stepney). "You will fall madly in love with any gentleman you see, but do you imagine that any of them even remember your name?"

Kitty paid her no mind.

Yet throughout all these little imagined romances, Alexander Price lingered dimly in her mind. Without meaning to, she found herself looking for him everywhere she went: in shops and tea-rooms, in the Pump-room and the Roman Baths, in the street and in the park. Each time she was introduced to one of Rosamond's friends, she found herself wondering if this was the "mutual acquaintance" which that young lady shared with Mr. Price; and every time she entered a new house, she found herself hoping distantly that he would be there. He was rarely the focus of her thoughts, but he was never entirely absent from them.

He was, however, apparently absent from Bath—or at least the parts of Bath into which Kitty ventured. She was disappointed, but not distraught, for there were people to meet, and places to go; and so she turned her mind to the pursuit of amusement and pleasure, and all those things which a merry young lady likes best.

Mary could find neither amusement nor pleasure in the comings and goings of Bath life. She did not enjoy meeting people (particularly gentlemen) for she always found herself without anything to say, in spite of all the opinions and judgments running through her mind. Aside from Robert Hart, nobody seemed to expect or appreciate her peculiar brand of honesty. She could never seem to ask the usual questions, or make the usual remarks, and she never managed to respond well to anybody else's simple pleasantries. It was easier, she found, to be entirely silent.

As to the amusements themselves—the dinner engagements, the promenades in the Pump-room and the park, the card-parties—she was discomfited by all of them. Life in Meryton had never been so active. At Longbourn, she had always the opportunity of disappearing into the garden with a book, or taking a well-timed walk across the fields, in order to escape the usual social calls; and she could often pass a full week without being obliged to sit politely in the drawing-room with the Lucases or her aunt Philips or anybody else; but here in Bath, she had no such recourse. Every hour was spent in company, and her nerves were wearing almost as thin as her mother's.

"If I could just be allowed to spend an hour or two by myself, in a book-shop," she pleaded, "I should be very content."

"A book-shop! Whatever do you want to go to a book-shop for?" Mrs. Bennet demanded crossly. "We have engagements to keep, and calls to pay; I have no time to take you to a book-shop."

"I should prefer to go _by_ _myself_," Mary repeated impatiently.

"Of course you shall not go by yourself; whoever heard of such a thing? A daughter of mine, wandering the streets alone and unaccompanied! I should be mortified!"

"And knowing you, Mary," Kitty interjected, giggling, "you would go bare-headed as well, without any gloves or spencer, and let everybody see you looking like a wild country-lass!"

"It shall not be," Mrs. Bennet said decisively. "Anyway, Mary, you have no knowledge of the city; I declare you could not even find your way to the Pump-room, though Heaven knows we have been there often enough. You have no head for city directions, and you would be lost as soon as you stepped out the door—and what would that do to my poor nerves?"

This much, at least, was true, for despite the week they had spent in Bath, Mary could not yet manage to find her way around it with any degree of success. But it was not her fault, she thought irritably, that all of the streets in Bath looked exactly alike, or that there were so many twists and turns and corners, which confused her sense of direction. She always knew precisely where she was when she was in Hertfordshire.

* * *

The most significant affair of that week was the gala at Sydney Gardens, in celebration of the birthday of the Prince of Wales. The procurement of tickets to the event had been one of Mrs. Bennet's first priorities upon their arrival in Bath, for she understood it to be one of the most well-attended gatherings of the summer. Kitty was particularly eager for the fireworks and the illuminations, and for the opportunity to promenade about the gardens in one of her prettiest summer gowns, which she had not yet found an opportunity of wearing. Mary dreaded the inevitable crowds and noise, but did rather look forward to the concert.

The gala began at five 'o clock in the evening, but of course Mrs. Bennet declared that it would not do to arrive _too _early, and so they did not make their entrance to the gardens until half past six.

It was a charming scene: though they were still some hours from sunset, when the illuminations and fireworks would begin, the gardens were nonetheless crowded. Ladies in fine late-summer dress meandered along the paths, some carrying parasols and others toying with their fans, many with gentlemen at their sides. There were canvas booths standing at either side of the Tavern, each furnished with simple tables and chairs enough to accommodate a party of moderate size. The Tavern itself was bustling, and a great deal of activity was to be seen through its windows and on its upper terrace. Waiters hurried between the Tavern and the booths, carrying plates laden with cold meat and bottles of wine. It seemed that many parties hoped to enjoy their suppers before the concert, which was to begin at seven, and Mrs. Bennet deeming this a sensible course, the ladies took possession of the first available booth they saw.

They ate quickly, without much sensible conversation. What words were exchanged had mostly to do with the ladies and gentlemen passing by, upon whose dress and comportment Mrs. Bennet had always something to say. Kitty was anxiously keeping a look-out for the Harts, or for Mrs. Fitzwilliam, or for Mr. Stepney, or for Mr. Price; but she was continually disappointed. By the time they had finished their supper, and the musicians were beginning their first movement, she began to fear that nobody of her entire acquaintance was at the gala—when she caught a familiar flash of gold hair, which filled her with relief. She excused herself from her mother and sister, and hurried away across the wide lawn.

Rosamond was walking toward the canal, in the company of Mr. Theodore Hart, Mrs. Anne Hart, and young Mr. Finch; and though Kitty's arrival rendered their party an odd number, nobody seemed to mind. She was greeted warmly by the three Harts, and shyly by Mr. Finch, and immediately invited to join them.

"Would your mother and sister care to walk with us?" Mrs. Hart asked politely. Kitty waved a dismissive hand.

"Oh!—no. Mary never likes to enjoy herself; and Mamma despises walking."

"Your frankness is admirable, Miss Bennet," observed Theodore Hart, laughing. "Any other girl would have claimed that her sister was engaged, and that her mother was indisposed; but you are not so false. Such candor is increasingly rare these days!"

Kitty blushed, but smiled.

"I am not sure that is strictly accurate," Rosamond said pleasantly. "I do not think candor has ever been in a very great supply; people have always lied, or otherwise deceived one another, regardless of the era."

"Why, Rose, what a little cynic you are," her brother exclaimed.

"Am I? I don't mean to be. My intention was not to make a criticism of human nature; it was merely an observation."

"And yet in making one, you make the other."

"_That_ is cynicism," Mrs. Hart put in; "to imply that any observation of people is also a cricitism of them."

"Am I to be challenged, then, by both wife and sister?" Theodore said in dismay. "I suppose I shall have to give up the argument entirely, and leave you two to your triumph."

"That is your doing, Anne," Rosamond laughed, taking Mrs. Hart's arm affectionately. "He is never so kind to me, except when you are near." She turned again to Kitty, who had been rather lost in the conversation, which sounded like something _Mary_ might appreciate. "I hope you enjoy concerts, Kitty, for one of the singers tonight is a Miss Watson, who is said to be very good."

Kitty readily expressed pleasure at the prospect, though she really did not care one way or the other for concerts. The company walked on, talking idly, along the canal. The Harts were well-connected—several ladies and gentlemen greeted them with nods and smiles, and one or two paused momentarily to exchange pleasant remarks—and Kitty glanced into every passing face, looking for a familiar one; yet she was disappointed.

"Rose," Kitty asked at length, as the conversation fell into a lull, "is all your family here this evening?"

"Only the three of us, and my father, who is watching the concert. My younger sister has a dreadful cold, and Robert offered to stay at home with her."

"How kind of him," Kitty said warmly, for she had momentarily forgotten that she was no longer in love with Robert Hart. To her surprise, Rosamond laughed.

"I suspect it was no great trial to him. Robert loathes crowds, and always complains that one can never hear the music at the galas, for everybody is talking over it."

"Our brother is very like your sister," Theodore Hart added, "in that he never likes to enjoy himself."

"He really is a dreadfully dull sort of person," Rose agreed.

"I must confess, Miss Bennet," Anne Hart said, "that I was quite shocked when I first heard Rose and Theo discuss their brother so unkindly; but I suppose it is all very natural to you, for you have siblings of your own."

"Oh!—it is very natural," Kitty answered cheerfully. "Scarcely a day goes by when I do not say something horrid about Mary; but really I think most of it is true. She never does anything but read and complain."

"_Very_ like our brother, then," Theodore remarked.

They had reached the canal, and were standing on the bridge. Rosamond, looking back along the park, declared that she should like to go sit with Dr. Hart and watch the concert. Kitty had no such desire; she really cared very little for concerts; and therefore she was quite relieved when Theodore stated his intention of taking another turn through the park. The four of them set out again; but Theodore and Anne soon fell some steps behind, engaged in a quiet conversation of their own, their heads bent together, Anne's hand settled gently on Theodore's arm. Kitty knew enough of married couples to understand that they desired privacy, but wished that she had not been left alone with Mr. Finch, who had taken no part in their previous conversation and, though they were walking together, had not offered his arm or even glanced in her direction. She gave an inward sigh, but resigned herself to her present fate.

"Do you enjoy concerts, Mr. Finch?" she asked, without much hope.

"I do," the gentleman replied stiffly, his face red.

"And do you attend them very often?" Kitty pressed.

"Not very often, no."

He said nothing else, and they fell into silence. Kitty, feeling as though she had done her duty and could do no more, allowed her gaze to drift out over the gardens. The sun had not yet set, but a dusky light was beginning to gather over the shaggy tops of the trees and the rippling waters of the canal. Ladies and gentlemen moved about gracefully, the hum of their voices rising to meet the distant sound of the concert. It really was a very pleasant scene, and despite her regrettable company, Kitty could not help feeling exceedingly content.

_After all_, she thought, rather smugly, _I _could_ be in Meryton right now._

It was at this moment, of course, that she caught sight of a vaguely familiar form walking toward her on the path. She squinted—and indeed it _was_ Mr. Price, looking gallant as she could have imagined, with his arm unfortunately clasped by an exceedingly pretty young woman whom Kitty did not recognize. They were talking earnestly, and the young lady did not seem able to keep herself from smiling.

Kitty's heart dropped so suddenly that it alarmed her momentarily; and she turned to Mr. Finch and demanded, without much finesse, "Mr. Finch, who is that girl?"

Mr. Finch had in fact turned to Miss Bennet in the same moment, preparing to ask her whether or not _she_ liked concerts, and attended them often. He was startled by her abrupt question, and was unable to reply for a short moment, while Kitty (who had stopped walking) squinted along the path in the gathering twilight. At length, however: "Which girl?" he asked.

"_That_ one," Kitty answered impatiently, gesturing. "The young lady there, walking this way. Are you acquainted with her?"

Mr. Finch gave the young lady in question a swift examination. "I should not think so," he replied at last, "though I cannot see very well in this light. Why do you ask?"

"Oh," Kitty said, faltering, as she regained her composure. "I—I thought her to be a friend of mine, but as you said, one cannot always tell in this light. I was hoping you could help me."

"I am sorry." He sounded sincere. "Shall we walk on? Perhaps you could see better if we were closer."

Kitty agreed readily. She had some hope of overhearing the couple's conversation, and also some hope that Mr. Price might see her with Mr. Finch (who really was quite handsome, for all his tediousness) and be struck by some mad jealousy. She was to be disappointed, however, for Mr. Price and the young lady gave them not even a glance, and their voices were too low to allow for eavesdropping. This, of course, was not a good sign, for a young lady and a gentleman who whisper together rarely do so without reason; and Kitty's heart sank as she walked by.

"She is not your friend, then?" Mr. Finch asked, once they were some distance away. Kitty shook her head mutely.

And now, she thought bitterly, she was hardly in spirits to attempt any more polite conversation with dull Mr. Finch. Their walk was sure to be a silent one, and very dreary, and Kitty suddenly wished that she hadn't come to the gala in the first place.

* * *

Mary had been sitting on the chairs near the musicians, watching the concert. Having eaten a good meal, and been allowed to sit quietly by herself and listen to music, she was in a better humor than she had been since coming to Bath. Her mother, having spotted an acquaintance, had left her quite alone, which had done some small wonder for Mary's spirits.

The music was undoubtedly of a finer quality than anything Mary had heard before. It was one of the honest laments of her life that despite her great and abiding love for music, her enjoyment of it should be limited to supper- and card-party performances upon the pianoforte by herself and other anxiously exhibiting young ladies. Certainly, some of these young ladies played very well indeed—Miss Georgiana Darcy leapt to mind—but Mary had always wished, nevertheless, for the opportunity to hear a true concert. It should have been her one joy, if her mother had ever persuaded her father to spend a season in Town, to visit the grand theatres and concert halls, and perhaps, if Mr. Bennet should agree, to benefit from the tutelage of some of the music-masters there. But of course this dream had never materialized.

She had little hope of attending many concerts in Bath, as neither her mother nor her sister was particularly fond of music. This was yet another point that set them apart; for Mary, having spent the past week in the close and inescapable company of these relations, was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that they were related at all. Of course she had never had much in common with her sisters, particularly the younger ones, and she had often, in those moments when she lay unhappily awake late at night, reflected bitterly that she was surely the odd sister out. Jane and Elizabeth had always been intimate; Kitty and Lydia were of very similar tastes and attitudes; and Mary-in-the-middle had no one but her books.

The music had taken a turn for the melancholy, which surely accounted for Mary's present frame of mind. The violins sang long and low, sweetly sorrowful, and the singer turned a forlorn gaze upon his audience as he held his note. Mary closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the song to wash gently over her.

"Miss Bennet?"

Mary opened her eyes and turned to face Rosamond Hart, who was perched on the seat beside her. Miss Hart's warm smile did not at all fit the mood of the song, and Mary was irritated at the girl's presence. However, she endeavored to remain courteous.

"Miss Hart," she answered, quietly, inclining her head.

"Forgive me, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart said politely. "I can see you are enjoying the music, and I have no wish to distract you. I wonder if you have seen my father? He told us he was watching the concert, but I have looked up and down the rows and cannot find him."

"I am sorry," Mary replied shortly. "I have not seen Dr. Hart this evening."

Miss Hart bit her lip, casting her eyes again about the audience. "Do you mind, then, Miss Bennet, if I sit here with you while I wait for him? I imagine he has gone into the Tavern."

Mary would really rather have been left by herself; the seats to either side of her were empty, and she had been enjoying the peace. She thought it rather pathetic that Miss Hart was unable to sit alone for even a moment while she waited for her father. But she could not very well say so to the young lady—it would have been too impolite even for Mary—and instead nodded slightly, indicating her assent. Miss Hart settled back into the chair beside her.

Mary imagined that a young lady of Miss Hart's frivolous temperament would be inclined to gossip and chatter throughout the performance, as several other parties were doing, and steeled herself to ignore the girl's overtures. However, no such overtures were forthcoming, and Mary, after a minute or so, dared to glance sideways at her unsolicited companion. Miss Hart's large eyes were directed attentively toward the stage, and she was even nodding her head, ever so slightly, to the rhythm of the violins, which had quickened again. Mary, quite relieved, returned her own gaze to the musicians.

They sat thus, in comfortable silence, for the remainder of the song and well into the next. Mary had not yet caught sight of her mother; but Dr. Hart soon joined his daughter and took the seat on her other side, murmuring a polite greeting to Mary as he did so. Miss Hart seemed quite undisposed to make conversation with her father, and Mary was soon able to forget that she had been interrupted at all.

It was not very long before the present performers ended their set, took their bows, and cleared the stage. There was to be a short intermission before the next set of musicians, which included the Miss Watson of whom Rosamond had spoken to Kitty, and in the meantime most of the audience rose in order to stretch their legs. The Harts, to Mary's disappointment, did not move; and she was obliged to make conversation, for Miss Hart turned to her and said pleasantly,

"I thought they were wonderful—I am sure Mr. Louis has never been in such fine voice."

Mary, who had never heard Mr. Louis sing before, merely nodded.

"Have you enjoyed the gala?" Miss Hart continued.

"I have," Mary replied, rather annoyed at the young lady's persistence, "at least I have enjoyed the concert.—I daresay I could do without the fireworks and illuminations, and all of those things."

"Indeed?" Miss Hart smiled. "I confess I look forward to the fireworks very much."

Mary, unsurprised, made no reply.

"Do you attend many concerts, Miss Bennet?" Dr. Hart questioned.

"There are not many to attend in Meryton."

"Do you play at all?"

"I do. I practice every day—or I do when I am home; we have not a pianoforte in our lodgings here."

"Then you must come and visit us," Miss Hart exclaimed, "and practice upon ours. I daresay my family would thank you for it; I have only three or four very favorite songs, and I selfishly persist in playing them day after day."

"Indeed," Dr. Hart said, laughing, "any variety would be most welcome."

"But how can your performance improve, if you never play anything new?" Mary demanded. "I should not call that practicing. It is like learning to read, only to read novels. One cannot better oneself that way."

"Perhaps you are correct, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart replied, with an odd elfin smile. "But I am very fond of novels."

"Mary!"

Mrs. Bennet appeared over Miss Hart's shoulder and hurried toward her daughter, only to drop into the seat at her other side. "I declare I have been looking for you all evening; I thought you had disappeared! Oh, excuse me," she added, blushing, as she caught sight of the Harts. Mary felt her own face color as her mother's loud voice pierced the murmur of conversation about them. "Why, Dr. Hart—and dear Miss Rosamond! How delightful it is to find you here! Has not this been a very agreeable evening?"

"Very agreeable indeed, Madam," Dr. Hart replied, his eyes twinkling. "My children and I always enjoy the galas."

"I am sure you do! I daresay I have never heard such fine music, nor enjoyed such amusing company. It is nothing at all like a Meryton assembly; and such a beautiful night!"

"We have been very blessed with the weather."

"Are all your children here, Dr. Hart?" Mrs. Bennet demanded shrewdly.

"Nay, only three of them—my eldest son, his wife, and Rosamond. My youngest daughter is ill this eve, and Robert offered to remain at home with her."

"How _very_ unfortunate," Mrs. Bennet cried, looking exceedingly vexed. Mary stared at her, her blush deepening, until Mrs. Bennet realized her misstep and attempted to atone. "It is so very unfortunate that he—that they—should miss such a prodigious pleasant evening. Will young Mr. Hart be at Mrs. Wolfe's ball, do you think?"

"I imagine he shall attend with great pleasure," Dr. Hart replied calmly, unable to suppress a small smile.

"Well, then, _that_ is something," Mrs. Bennet declared, with great satisfaction. "And I do hope he shall be inclined to dance, for my daughters have always been very great dancers."

Miss Hart met Mary's eyes with another of her peculiar smiles. Mary did not think she could be any more mortified. Fortunately, the second set of musicians had taken the stage, and at that moment began their song, signaling an end to the conversation. Mrs. Bennet settled back in her chair, looking very much pleased with herself, and Mary was glad to direct her eyes once more to the stage.

* * *

Mr. Finch had excused himself upon their return to the general vicinity of the concert, leaving Kitty quite alone, for Theodore and Anne were yet some distance behind her on the path. Kitty could not pretend to miss the clergyman's company, for indeed the remainder of the walk had passed in stiff silence, with no attempt at conversation on either side. However, she would rather not have been left by herself, for she was sure she looked quite foolish and lonesome without any company.

She went and sat, for a time, near the Tavern; but it was populated mostly by gentlemen, engaged in either serious conversations or card-games, and she began to feel rather uncomfortable. Then she walked along the path a little ways, in the hopes of rejoining Anne and Theodore, but she could see from afar that their arms were still linked and their heads were still together, and she lacked the courage to interrupt their intimacy. With a sigh, she made her way toward the concert, where at least she could sit next to Mary and _look_ as though she belonged somewhere. She wished Robert Hart were here—she wished Mr. Price were alone—she wished Rosamond had not left her.

Upon drawing near the concert, however, she found that Mary (and her mother, and Rose, and Dr. Hart) were all seated rather inconveniently near the middle of the audience, surrounded on all sides by other listeners. It would be difficult, and impolite, to push her way into the middle of the cluster of chairs; and though it was the sort of thing which Lydia might have done without a second thought, Kitty was not so daring as her sister. Instead, she found an empty chair near the back of the audience, which she sank into with a sigh.

The concert was really very good—the singer was pretty, and had a charming voice—but Kitty was uninterested in concerts, for she only ever enjoyed music to which she could dance. She looked about idly. The dusk had gathered into darkness, and there were fewer people walking along the paths. The lanterns had been lit at the Tavern and in the seating-booths, and a few waiters still hurried here and there, carrying bottles and trays. Kitty wondered when the fireworks would start; she hoped the concert would end soon, that she might return to her mother and sister. The gardens seemed much less charming now, when she was alone and bored. Why were none of her friends here? Where were all of the acquaintance she had met over the past week? She wished she were at a ball, rather than a gala; at least then she would have something to watch.

"Miss Bennet!"

Mr. Price had materialized beside her, seemingly from nowhere, and Kitty jumped at the sudden address; but upon perceiving the identity of her company, her heart began to beat slightly faster.

"Forgive me," Mr. Price laughed, perceiving her alarm. "I did not mean to startle you."

Kitty smiled at him. She could not help it; his blue eyes were dark in the light of lamps and stars, and his good humor was infectious. Besides, he hardly gave the impression of having earlier walked with a young lady in the twilight, and Kitty began to wonder if she had been mistaken.

"When did you arrive?" Mr. Price continued, taking the chair at her side.

"We have been here since half-six."

"Since half-six! And I have not seen you? This is a tragedy," the gentleman proclaimed. "I am sure you have been hiding, Miss Bennet, or I should have discovered you before now."

"I certainly have not," Kitty returned, her spirits lifting rapidly, "I have been in plain sight, walking with Rose Hart and her brother."

"How ill-bred of them, to leave you alone! And how unwise of Mr. Hart; is he not afraid of losing your affections, by leaving them unguarded?"

"Mr. Hart? He is married!" Kitty laughed, scandalized.

"Ah—I thought you meant the younger brother."

"Robert Hart is not here tonight," Kitty said. Then, feeling very daring, she added, "And my affections are not his to lose. They are not anybody's."

Mr. Price smiled at her. Kitty did not think he had ever looked so handsome (she had forgotten, momentarily, that she had only seen him once before). "_That_," he said, "is indeed a tragedy."

It was at this moment that a gentleman in the row in front turned to them, and beseeched them to lower their voices, that he might better hear the music. Mr. Price, looking boredly toward the stage, suggested that they take a short turn about the grounds, before the fireworks. Kitty agreed readily, eager for more of his charming company.

There was something very gratifying, she reflected, about Mr. Price's attention; he had a way of making one feel as though they were the only person in the world of any interest. His conversation was animated, his words enthusiastic, his gaze earnest, his smile genuine. He listened well, and spoke better; he was quick to laugh. As they walked together, Kitty imagined that every other young lady envied her, and that every other young gentleman coveted her attention, for in the glow of Mr. Price's regard, she felt more charming and interesting than she ever had before. She was delighted when he offered his arm, and wondered if there were ever any couple more attractive than the two of them.

"Are all your family in Bath?" Mr. Price asked, as they walked together.

"No; only Mamma, and Mary, and myself.—Mary is my next elder sister."

"Is she married?"

Kitty let out an involuntary snort of laughter. "Lord! It is clear you have never met my sister, or you would know that she is dreadful reserved and disagreeable around gentlemen, and certainly none of them have ever cared for _her_. She only ever thinks about books."

Mr. Price smiled at her. "How strange it is, that two sisters should be so very much unlike. Are your other sisters more of your temperament?"

"Lydia is—my younger sister—she is great fun, and exceedingly droll, though she can be very bad-tempered sometimes. My eldest sisters are not nearly so amusing as Lydia, but they are not so bad as Mary. Lizzy, she is Mrs. Darcy now, is exceedingly clever; and Jane is of a very sweet temperament. She is married to my brother Bingley. Of course Lizzy and Jane are both awfully serious, which I think is very dull. I can never be serious for anything; I am too much given to laugh."

Mr. Price laughed, and declared himself to be the very same way.

"Have you any brothers or sisters?" Kitty asked genially. To her surprise, the gentleman's face darkened.

"I have a sister," said he, rather shortly, "but we are not on very good terms. Indeed I envy you, Miss Bennet, for the familiarity and intimacy which you enjoy with your siblings; would that I could share your felicity!"

"I am sorry," Kitty said honestly.

"You must not apologize; you must not pity me."

But Kitty could not help it, for Mr. Price's expression was so very sad. As though he sensed her pity, Mr. Price turned his face away for a moment, and would not meet her eyes. When he turned back, he was smiling again.

"And now," he continued, as though nothing had happened, "you are so blessed as to have two brothers, whom I have heard to be very well-respected in all the best circles."

"Yes," Kitty agreed, relieved at the return of his good humor. "They are both of them very well-known, and generally admired. I confess Mr. Darcy is often too grave for my liking, but I have never met such an amiable gentleman as Mr. Bingley."

"I should like to make their acquaintance," Mr. Price remarked. Kitty, feeling rather uncertain as to whether it would be strictly proper for her to arrange an introduction, furrowed her brow. Her companion noticed this, and laughed.

"I did not mean I should like _you_ to introduce me, Miss Bennet; I am well aware that such would be quite irregular. I only meant, perhaps when I return to Town, I shall meet one of them some place or other. I have heard that Mr. Darcy occasionally stops in at my club; he has some acquaintance there. And Charles Bingley is popular with a great many of my friends."

Kitty could not attest to the truth of this, but gave Mr. Price her most pleasant smile anyway. He returned it, and Kitty, feeling warmly disposed toward the gentleman, clung a little tighter to his arm. She was very glad, now, that Mr. Finch had left her by herself.

"Miss Bennet," Mr. Price said, in a low voice, "do you enjoy dancing?"

"I enjoy it above anything else," Kitty affirmed, her heart fluttering.

"I ask, because I have heard that you and your family are to be present at the Wolfes' ball on Saturday."

"Why," Kitty laughed, "wherever did you hear so?"

"Oh, here and there," Mr. Price answered casually. "Perhaps I am dreadfully impertinent, Miss Bennet; perhaps I am far too forward; if I am, you must tell me. But if I may, I should like to request the pleasure of your hand for the first dance on Saturday." He met her eyes, looking rather anxious.

Kitty was too delighted to speak immediately. "Of course you may have my hand," she cried, cheeks blooming pink, when she recovered her voice. Then, recalling the prudence of remaining somewhat aloof, she gave a short curtsy. "I am sure it will be an honor, sir."

"The honor is mine," Mr. Price assured her, smiling again. He bowed.

"Miss Bennet?"

It was the second time that evening that Kitty had been startled by an unexpected address, and she turned this time to greet Theodore Hart, Anne on his arm.

"Oh, Mr. Hart," she cried, beaming, "is not this a lovely night?"

"Exceptionally so," he replied. "Where is your sister? Or mine, for that matter," he added.

"Rose and Mary are watching the concert; I arrived too late and could not reach their seats, and was obliged to sit alone. Mr. Price," she turned happily to that gentleman, "was good enough to rescue me, or I should have been dreadfully bored."

"The fireworks will be starting soon," Anne said, glancing at Mr. Price. "Will you walk back with us, Miss Bennet?"

"Oh, to be sure," Kitty answered readily. "Lord—I had forgotten about the fireworks!"

"How can you have forgotten about the fireworks?" Mr. Hart teased, as they began walking again. "They are the entire reason for the gala."

"I am sure that is not true!"

"Indeed it is: nobody attends to eat the food, for it is bland, and nobody comes especially for the concerts, for they are only fair. We all gather for the prospect of fireworks."

"Perhaps _you_ do," Kitty replied, with conviction, "but I know that Mary only came because there was to be music, and Mamma only came so she could look at everybody else."

"There are exceptions to every rule; but it is too fair a night to argue."

"Then that is two arguments this evening, Theo," Anne remarked, "which you have conceded. I hope this is not evidence of some growing tendency on your part; for you do make a career by arguing. Should I be concerned for our livelihood?"

"I am sure, my love," Theodore replied, "that even if I should give up the law entirely, and devote myself to painting, or writing poetry, or some other profession in which it is impossible to make money, your capable housekeeping would miraculously procure for us a well-appointed home, and a full table."

"And now you are being foolish," Anne laughed, "and I shan't listen to you anymore."

Their affectionate conversation, that comfortable sort which is particular to married couples, combined with the presence of Mr. Price beside her, had the effect of igniting in Kitty a feeling of warm domesticity and happiness. She imagined that one day she and Mr. Price (but of course then she would call him Alexander—or even Alex) would bicker so, and walk close together in summer evenings. She was quite sure, now, that she had been mistaken earlier, for Mr. Price would not have secured her hand for the Wolfes' ball if he were in love with somebody else; and if his love for that other young lady were a secret, he would never have walked so with her in front of everybody at the gala. No; she could feel, in her very heart, that he was destined to be hers.

The concert was ending as they approached, and before very long, they were able to locate the Bennets and the Harts. Mrs. Bennet was full of chatter, for she had spent the intervening time gazing rapturously about, and gathering gossip; Mary was silent and dull, as ever; Dr. Hart was pleasant and conversational, and Rosamond cheerful, though rather disposed to speak of the concert, to Kitty's disappointment. Mr. Price was introduced to Mrs. Bennet and Mary, and received an eager greeting from the former, and a civil one from the latter.

The company sought a large circle of chairs from which to enjoy the fireworks display, and arranged themselves comfortably as the first whistle began, and the little rocket shot into the air, showering the audience with sparks like stars. Kitty gazed about herself in satisfaction. Never, she thought, had she been so perfectly content, for she was young and pretty, and she was going to dance with Mr. Price.

These happy thoughts carried her through the rest of the night, into the carriage that took her home, and at last into her warm bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**: I'm so, so, **so** sorry for the incredibly long lapse. What has it been, like six months? Real life intervened in a massive way and forced me to take a hiatus from this story in favor of the other tasks that make up the life of a soon-to-be college graduate (two thesis projects, three term papers, four excruciating required classes, finding a job an apartment and a roommate in that order, applications for just about everything, decisions about grad school and a hefty dose of senioritis, to name a few…).

As I sort of mentioned in my first author's note, my life is probably at its most hectic right now, because just about everything in it is changing or about to change. And in addition to worrying questions of self-definition and anxieties about the future in an increasingly uncertain world, there are also a lot of practical issues to consider. Like, how am I going to find a job when experienced, loyal, longtime workers are losing theirs every day? How can I afford to maintain myself on the crappy salary that I'm probably going to start out with? Please, God, don't make me have to move back in with my parents! (Just kidding, Mom and Dad! I love you! Go Packers!)

Anyway, all of this is a very long-winded and whiny way of saying that I'm sorry for the delay, but it was really unavoidable and I hope you'll all forgive me. And thank you so unbelievably much for the kind and encouraging reviews I've been getting! I cannot express how happy it makes me to know that people are entertained by this little story. Everyone reading has been _incredibly_ patient—I'm overjoyed to report that I haven't gotten _any_ of those awful bullying reviews that I sometimes see on other semi-dormant stories—"You better update you stupid bitch" and so on. You guys are all way too classy for words and I'm not sure I deserve such gracious, well-mannered readers! Thank you so much for reading (even if you don't review!) and I hope the horrible wait was at least a little bit worth it!

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

* * *

There are few things that can create more anguish and anticipation in a young lady than a ball. For the Miss Bennets, currently of Henry Street, Bath, the days leading up to the gathering at the Wolfes' were fraught with the sort of tension which arises when one object is desperate to go in one direction, and the other is digging in its heels most dreadfully.

"I shall not enjoy it in the least," was Mary's constant refrain. "I detest balls; I loathe them; they are bad enough in Hertfordshire, but here in Bath, where the entire hall shall be so crowded and we shan't know anyone—"

"We shall know the Harts," Kitty retorted, "and the Fitzwilliams; and Mrs. Wolfe herself invited us. Besides, I cannot see why you are so concerned about _knowing_ people—it isn't as though _you_ will dance with anybody, or even speak to them—you will sit in the corner all night long, looking miserable!"

"She certainly will not," Mrs. Bennet interjected, aghast. "I shall not see a daughter of mine sitting down for an entire ball—not even Mary; it is too much to be borne. You will dance with Mr. Robert Hart, Mary," she added, more kindly, "for _he_ will surely ask you."

Kitty laughed aloud at this, and Mary went rather red.

When they were not bickering, the Bennet ladies were concerning themselves with all things sartorial, as is natural when one is faced with a ball. Because it was the first ball they were to attend in Bath, Mrs. Bennet had decided that there was no cause to purchase new gowns just yet, for nobody here had seen their old ones; but of course there were adjustments to be made. Kitty had interrogated Rosamond and Mrs. Hart on the gowns they were to wear, and reported her findings to her mother with all the importance of a military scout. Lace must be removed; sleeves must be lengthened at least an inch; gloves must be dyed in a complementary color, rather than a matching one. The fashions of Bath, which Kitty and Mrs. Bennet viewed as necessarily superior to those of Meryton, were to be respected.

Mary was shooed from the scene after one too many loud remarks on the foolishness of caring so much for appearances, and attempted to seek solace in her books, but she had no place to read them. The bedroom she shared with her sister was strewn with ribbons, bonnets, gloves and shawls; it was entirely unlike her bedroom at home, which she had always kept very tidy. The sitting-room was of course where Kitty and Mrs. Bennet had established their temporary tailor's shop, and she could not sit in there without being in someone's way. The dining-room was very small, and looked out over the street, so there was always a great deal of noise from passing carriages and pedestrians. The small bit of garden that belonged to the house was not well tended; its plants were all dead or dying, and the beds were very much overgrown, so that it served only to remind her of the green meadows and pretty groves that she missed so sorely.

"I should like to go for a walk," Mary announced on the afternoon before the ball. Mrs. Bennet looked up impatiently from lengthening a hem (Kitty had grown half an inch over the summer, to her mother's disgruntlement).

"Who has time to go for a walk?" she demanded crossly.

"I have," Mary replied. "I have heard that there are several fine parks in Bath, and I should like to go walk in one."

"You may not go by yourself; you will become lost; and neither of us cares to go with you."

To her horror, Mary felt the faint pricklings of tears in her eyes. "But I have nothing to do," she pressed. "There is no pianoforte to practice upon, and I am too distracted to read in this house."

"Oh, Mary," Mrs. Bennet cried, waving an irritable hand. "I daresay you are straining my nerves worse than ever; surely you can find something to do, and leave us in peace. We are working most diligently, as you can see, and I might add that we have had no help from you!"

"I am no good at needlework," Mary replied sulkily, but her mother's attention had returned to the gown in her hands, and Mary was again ignored. She returned to her bedroom, where she attempted to disregard the mess about her, in order to write a lengthy letter to her sister Jane, in which she detailed all her various mistreatments.

The day of the ball dawned misty and cool, to Kitty's dismay and Mary's secret delight; but by the late morning, the sun had broken through the clouds. Kitty was far too excited to eat more than a few bites of her breakfast, while Mrs. Bennet spent much of the day wondering aloud if her fluttery nerves would carry her through the evening. Mary sulked, as was her wont when faced with the prospect of a night spent in a hot and crowded room, surrounded by people she did not know and did not care for, with her books miles away and nobody to invite her to the pianoforte.

To Kitty, it seemed as though the day dragged on far longer than it ought; but finally it was time to begin pinning hair into place, stepping carefully into stays and petticoats, and carefully applying lotions and perfumes. Kitty wriggled so much in anticipation that Mrs. Bennet, who was arranging her hair, was obliged to deliver a sharp tap on the shoulder.

"Be still, my love," Mrs. Bennet ordered, "or I shan't be able to make this pin sit right; and if your curls all come tumbling down in the middle of the dance floor, and scatter pins all over, I shall not be held responsible."

Kitty, horrified at the thought, sat very still.

Mary was dressed far earlier than her mother and sister, which was hardly unusual or unexpected, and was obliged to wait at least a quarter of an hour before Kitty at least appeared at the top of the stairs and began making her way down, at which point she shrieked that she had forgotten her brooch and dashed back again into the bedroom. Mrs. Bennet emerged a moment later, and was nearly in the vestibule before realizing that she was wearing the wrong gloves, and hastening up the stairs. At last, however, the three ladies were ready to step into the hired carriage.

"My dear girls," Mrs. Bennet remarked, casting a favorable eye upon her daughters as they settled themselves, "I daresay you are both looking quite pretty; neither of you shall ever be as handsome as your elder sisters, you know, but you are both in very good looks tonight, and I hope you shall not go without partners."

Kitty flushed happily. Indeed she did look rather becoming, in her cheerful yellow gown, with her hair wound into a _chignon_ and a few curls framing her face prettily. Her excitement had lent a sparkle to her eyes and a blush to her cheek, and her heart fluttered eagerly at the thought of dancing her promised dance with Mr. Price.

Mary heard her mother's words with rather less satisfaction. Her own dark blue gown was very simple, as she preferred it, and she had arranged her hair much the same way she always did. She thought she looked plain as ever; though of course she did not mind, for she cared nothing for appearances. She had no expectation of dancing with anybody—she hoped she would not—she wanted only to find a quiet corner where she could sit, unobserved and unbothered, until she could finally go home.

* * *

The Wolfes' home, located near Victoria Park, gleamed with the light of hundreds of candles. Despite the early hour, several carriages lined the streets, and others were pausing momentarily to allow passengers to disembark. Catching a glimpse of the commotion, Kitty felt her heart beat faster, and could not keep a wide smile from her face.

"Look, Mamma!—Is that not Colonel Fitzwilliam?" she cried, turning to her mother. "And that must be Mrs. Fitzwilliam beside him; Lord, I should not have recognized her in that cape! She looks very pretty, does she not?"

"Very pretty, my dear," Mrs. Bennet agreed magnanimously.

"Then those must be her cousins all round her. And there are Mr. Lloyd and Mrs. Lloyd—what a pale little thing Mrs. Lloyd is! And there is Miss Dalton, and, oh, I am afraid her gown is quite ugly!"

"Perhaps she has no taste for fashion," Mary sniffed. "Perhaps her mind is engaged upon more sensible matters."

"Well, but it really is very ugly: the poor creature! Miss Haverstock is waving the largest fan I have ever seen—I imagine she thinks herself very grand!"

The carriage stopped, and after some hurried rearranging, the ladies clambered down onto the cobblestone street and joined the throng of people meandering toward the doors. There was a momentary crush as they waited to enter; then, a wave of heat and a swell of sound, and they were inside.

The vestibule was bright and busy. A large chandelier, brilliantly lit, cast a warm golden glow on the faces of the guests; there were candles in every window and more in the sconces along the walls. Mrs. Bennet pushed her way through the crowd, proferring general good-natured apologies as she did so, and her daughters trailed in her wake. They were received genially by their host and hostess, though Mrs. Wolfe made the unfortunate mistake of addressing "Miss Katherine" as "Miss Caroline," which Kitty readily forgave because they were really only very lately acquainted. They were directed into the ballroom, where Mrs. Wolfe promised they would find the dance already begun, and (she added with a wink) plenty of eager young gentleman hoping for pretty partners. Mrs. Bennet needed no further encouragement to steer her girls in the suggested direction.

Kitty's smile had not faded since they left the carriage, and only grew larger as they entered the ballroom. Couples whirled across the admittedly small dance-floor (it was only a town-house, after all), stepping adroitly to a merry tune. Those who were not dancing were occuping the chairs and couches lining the walls, or else hurrying by on their way to and from the parlor, where tea and cakes and even ices were being served. A pair of young ladies scampered past, hand-in-hand and giggling madly, reminding Kitty very much of the adventures she used to have with Lydia when the regiment was in Meryton; more sedate ladies rustled by in their fine summer silks, laughing over the sound of the music. Gentlemen stood in small groups around the room, talking earnestly and good-naturedly, and occasionally one of them would break away from his friends to approach one of the seated ladies. Kitty fairly beamed with pleasure. Here was what she loved: talk and laughter, music and dancing, and a great many people to look at. She gazed eagerly about the room.

"Well, girls," Mrs. Bennet declared, eyeing the assembly with satisfaction, "let us find a seat, and I am sure you will be dancing before long." She began shepherding her daughters toward a cluster of vacant chairs.

"It is very hot," Mary complained, but nobody heard her over the sound of the music.

The Bennets had not been seated for very long before Mr. Price emerged from the crowd and approached them. Kitty, fanning herself, felt her heart leap.

"Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Price declared, giving a deep bow. "Miss Bennet; Miss Katherine. I would express a hope that you ladies are well this evening, but you all look so exceedingly lovely that it would be quite superfluous."

Mrs. Bennet, whose heart had already been softened toward Mr. Price by his handsome face and well-cut waistcoat, smiled benevolently. "Sir, you are too kind!"

The last notes of the reel resounded, and the dancing couples faced each other across the floor, laughing and applauding. There was a moment of relative quiet as the musicians prepared for the next tune, and the dancers made their way back to their seats.

"I believe the cotillion is next," said Mr. Price, smiling at Kitty. "Mrs. Bennet, I do hope it will not be too hard on you if I claim Miss Katherine—for, you see, she has made me a promise."

"Oh—of course!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed delightedly, turning to her blushing daughter. "Kitty, you silly creature, what a fine joke, never to say a word!"

The silly creature in question only beamed at her as charming Mr. Price led her onto the slowly filling dance floor.

"There, you see, Mary?" Mrs. Bennet declared with deep satisfaction. "I did say you girls would not go without partners!"

"I have not had a partner yet, Mamma," Mary reminded her dully. "And I don't see anybody here who is likely to ask me."

"Well," replied Mrs. Bennet significantly, casting a shrewd glance about the room. "The Harts have not arrived yet, after all."

Kitty, facing Mr. Price across the small dance floor, smiled giddily. She had noticed one or two other young ladies glancing at Mr. Price, and took great pleasure in the fact that he was _hers_ for this dance, at least, and—her heart was beating wildly—probably for at least one more later on. She sighed happily as the musicians struck the first few familiar notes of the cotillion, and extended her hand. Mr. Price took it; his own hand was very warm. They began to move in the first steps of the dance.

"Miss Bennet," Mr. Price began, "you have spent nearly a fortnight in Bath, now; however have you filled your days?"

"Why," Kitty exclaimed, "the same way anybody does: I go to the Pump-room, and I go to the shops, and I visit friends."

"Which friends do you visit?"  
"Oh, Miss Hart, usually, and sometimes Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Do you know Mrs. Fitzwilliam? She is my cousin, almost, for her husband is the son of Mr. Darcy's uncle—or perhaps his aunt. I'm afraid I don't remember."

"A family connection, at any rate," Mr. Price agreed. "And is not Miss Hart almost your cousin, then, by the same logic? Her sister-in-law is a de Bourgh by birth, and niece of the late Mrs. Darcy."

"Why, I suppose that's true," cried Kitty, laughing. "I declare I never thought of it! I shall have to tell Rosamond; she will be so amused." She gazed up at him. "What a great deal you know about the Darcys, Mr. Price!"

"Indeed," the gentleman replied, after a pause. "I have made rather a study of our historic families; I have always found them fascinating."

"So have I," Kitty declared, "though I never thought to study them." She laughed suddenly. "I certainly never thought I should belong to one!"

She was briefly afraid she had offended Mr. Price, for he gave her a rather searching look as they separated and moved through another figure, during which conversation was limited; but when they rejoined, he was smiling at her more brilliantly than he ever had before.

"And are you happy, now that you find yourself one of the peerage?" he asked airily.

"La! I shouldn't place myself so high," Kitty giggled, "and indeed nothing has really changed, except that sometimes we go visit finer houses than we did before, and occasionally I am introduced to young ladies whose fathers are lords or barons."

"Such as young Mrs. Hart?"

"Yes," Kitty replied dismissively, "but you wouldn't think it to look at her; that is what I mean. It isn't nearly so exciting as I should have thought! I imagine," she continued thoughtfully, "that it would be more interesting if _I_ had a famous name and a great fortune, like Miss Darcy—she is my age, you know."

"And I have heard," Mr. Price said, with a confidential air, "that she is exceedingly well-guarded, and almost never allowed to attend balls or assemblies, or meet anybody new, because her brother fears so for her name and her fortune; should you enjoy that?"

"Certainly not," Kitty answered, though rather hesitantly. Mr. Price seemed to notice her hesitatation, and rejoined gallantly,

"I am glad to hear it; for if you were kept behind tall walls and locked gates, we should never have met, and I should have regretted that very much."

"Indeed you should not," Kitty responded, warming to the conversation as it returned to more familiar territory. "How could you have regretted what you never could have known?"

"I am sure," Mr. Price said solemnly, "that even if we had never met, I should have been dimly aware that I was missing something—I may not have had a name for it, or even an idea of what it could be, but I should instinctively have known it was not there, and it would have made me sad."

Kitty flushed with astonished pleasure. "You are talking a great deal of nonsense," she replied coquettishly.

"You wound me, my dear Miss Bennet."

They passed the remainder of the dance in similar fashion, and when the song ended and they faced each other across the floor, Kitty felt as if she were floating. She knew for certain that she had never seen such a handsome gentleman. Mr. Price's blue eyes were even bluer against the black cotton and gold buttons of his coat, and a single lock of his dark hair had fallen gently over his forehead during the dance. Kitty found herself itching to brush it away, and blushed deeply as he offered her his arm.

"I hope this will not be our only dance of the evening, Miss Bennet," Mr. Price said gallantly, steering her smoothly through the crowded hall.

Kitty gave him her prettiest smile. They reached the chair where Mary still sat, and after a few more pleasant words, a curtsy from Kitty and a bow from Mr. Price, they parted.

* * *

Even Kitty was not silly enough to go into raptures in the middle of a crowded ballroom, where anybody might see her; but once Mr. Price was out of earshot, she could not help gripping Mary's arm and giving the faintest little squeal of delight, which fortunately went unheard over the music and voices that filled the hall.

"I see you enjoyed yourself," Mary muttered, attempting to extract her arm.

"Oh, Mary, I am sure I am going to marry him! I know I have said it before, but now I am really and honestly certain—he is the most perfect gentleman! Do you know, he very nearly told me right out that he is in love with me!"

"Then he was very forward," her sister replied severely, "and I daresay very foolish as well. This is only your second meeting."

"I beg your pardon; it is our _third_," Kitty corrected, with a great deal of dignity.

"That is hardly enough time to fall in love."

"Of course it is! It is enough time for _true_ love, which is based upon instinct and feeling. A minute is enough time for true love."

"Instinct and feeling are not enough to sustain a marriage," Mary said. "Both parties must be reasonable and logical; they must be compatible in every way possible, and compatibility is not determined by immediate attraction. It can only be developed over time, through serious and thoughtful conversations, in which views and opinions and values are shared and discussed. Only when a lady and a gentleman are in absolute harmony on all such points should they begin to consider marriage."

"Lord," Kitty sighed, feeling some of the fire, ignited by Mr. Price, doused by her sister, "I would not endure your version of marriage for anything. And I don't see what you know about it, anyway—you've never so much as spoken to a gentleman who wasn't married or a direct relation."

"Of course I have," Mary snapped, rather red in the face.

"Where is Mamma?" Kitty demanded. "I am sure she will be happier for me than you are; she understands all about falling in love."

"She went to fetch an ice. She was complaining about the heat."

"Oh, look!" Kitty cried, no longer interested in her mother's whereabouts. "Here are Mr. Hart, and Mrs. Hart, and Rosamond and Robert, and, why, that must be their sister! What a dear little creature—she is so fair!"

The youngest Miss Hart, whose golden curls matched her sister's, was clutching Robert's arm tightly and gazing about the ballroom with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Kitty, who enjoyed feeling worldly and encouraging, was immediately fond of her, and felt a great motherly urge to take the pretty child under her wing.

It was not very long before Mr. Hart spotted the Bennet sisters, and steered his family in their direction. The two parties met merrily, with a great deal of exclamation over the loveliness of each lady's gown, and the pleasantness of the decorations, and the skill of the dancers. The gentlemen managed to locate enough free chairs to seat the entire group, and soon Kitty was seated happily between the Miss Harts, laughing and chatting. It was almost, she thought vaguely, like being at a ball with Lydia again; certainly, it was more enjoyable than sitting alone with Mary.

"I have only danced one dance," she confessed, upon Rosamond's asking the expected question. "It was with Mr. Price—he had already requested my hand at the gala, and so I was bound to dance with him; and I think he shall probably ask me again later." She looked about warily, then leaned forward, clasping Rosamond's hands and speaking very close to her ear. "I am certain he is grown very fond of me," she whispered, beaming.

"That is only fair, since you are already so fond of him," Rosamond teased, and Kitty was relieved to see none of the disapproval that had lingered in her friend's eyes after they had left Sally Lunn's. Nonetheless, she deemed it wise not to talk _too_ much about Mr. Price, or Rosamond should think her far too keen.

"Is this your first ball, Miss Juliet?" she asked kindly, changing the subject. The youngest Hart sister, whose eyes had been fixed upon the swirl of the dance floor, turned to her excitedly.

"Indeed it is not, but I have only ever gone to the Assembly Rooms before," she said breathlessly. Her voice was rather thick, as the cold which had kept her from the gala had not entirely dissipated. "I think I prefer private balls like this one—they are so grand!"

"This is Julie's first season 'out,'" Rosamond explained, looping an affectionate arm about her sister's waist. "I am beginning to think we should have kept her in the schoolroom for another year—balls and parties have been her only concern all summer!"

"La, that is not so troubling," Kitty exclaimed, "for they are my only concern all the time."

Rosamond laughed.

"I am not so silly as you say, Rose," Juliet protested, turning earnestly to her sister; "I have spent at least an hour reading each day, and I have not neglected my poetry. You and our brothers would keep me in the schoolroom forever, but I am sure I must have some life experience if I am to become the most eminent lady poet in Britain by the time I am twenty-one."

"Then you have only six years in which to gain all of the life experience you require, and so I suppose I must concede, and allow you to enjoy yourself," Rosamond replied cheerfully. "Only remember to dance no more than two dances with a gentleman, or he shall fall madly in love with you and everybody will talk—and then you will have to break his heart, or be obliged to marry him. Is that not so, Kitty?"

"Indeed it is," Kitty affirmed, "but if you do have to break somebody's heart, I daresay it would make an excellent poem—much more exciting than those dull Greek and Latin verses that one always hears recited."

Young Miss Hart, after giving a slight sneeze which was muffled in her handkerchief, declared herself particularly taken with this idea, and turned her attention again to the ballroom, in search of someone who might conceivably fall madly in love with her.

Robert Hart had taken the seat at Mary's left, as she had rather hoped he would; for the older Mr. Hart was at her right, and she found him far too disposed to laughter for her taste. It would be refreshing, she reflected, to enjoy some sensible conversation in a ballroom. Yet she was rather disappointed, for Robert immediately turned to her and—rather than engaging her in a discussion of theology or philosophy, or inviting a skilled criticism of the inane music typical of a ballroom—asked if she were liking Bath any better, now that she had spent a fortnight there.

"I am not," she replied stiffly. "I do not like Bath, and I do not think I ever shall."

Mr. Hart nodded. "I thought I would ask," he said, "in case anything had changed."

There was that tone again, in his voice, that suggested he was teasing her.

"I suppose, then, Miss Bennet, that you must hate a ball."

"I do not _hate_ a ball," Mary said. "It is a very strong word, and I do not consider such a topic worthy of strong feelings. But I do believe a ball to be a waste of time."

"Because your time could be better spent in solitary reflection and self-improvement?"

"Yes," Mary replied uneasily, for now she was quite certain he was mocking her. "And also because a ball does not live up to its stated purpose, in my estimation."

He did not reply, but when she turned to him, he was regarding her with interest. She took this as a signal to elaborate, and went on,

"We attend balls in hopes of making an ideal match—of negotiating a marriage, as it were." She blushed a bit, for she had never before used the word "marriage" in conversation with a gentleman, but pressed on. "Yet how can one determine if another person is a proper choice when interaction is limited to such a shallow means? All one learns from dancing is whether or not one's partner is a good dancer and possesses that useless skill of making pleasant conversation over loud music. My eldest and youngest sisters fell in love upon a dance floor, and while it has ended happily for Jane, I am sure Lydia will come to regret her choice. Even Kitty—she has met a certain gentleman three times, and now that they have danced she is convinced that they are meant to marry."

It struck her, as she finished, that this last sentence was perhaps rather imprudent. Mr. Hart's eyes flitted to Kitty for a moment, but his attention returned to Mary.

"What would you have, in place of a ball?"

"A quiet room," Mary replied immediately. "Without card-games, or a dance floor, or any other form of distraction. If music must be provided, it should display technical excellence and intellectual value; no cotillions or reels. Furthermore, it should be quiet enough that it does not interrupt conversation. For conversation, true, meaningful conversation, is what one must have, when selecting a—a husband. Or wife," she added, feeling rather embarrassed and not at all certain of the propriety of the subject matter.

"And so dancing is completely superfluous," Mr. Hart remarked. "But do you not think, Miss Bennet, that one may base a marriage upon mutual enjoyment of an activity in addition to compatibility in conversation?"

"This is where we disagree, sir," Mary reminded him. "For you believe people require amusement, and I believe they require constant self-examination and a thorough understanding of their own values and principles, in order to live as well as they can."

"Ah, yes," Robert replied, smiling slightly. "This is where we disagree. And so you do not dance, Miss Bennet?"

"Not generally," Mary answered scornfully. In spite of herself, however, her heart began to beat rather more quickly.

"But I understand your sister does," Robert went on. "Look, now: your sister is losing Rosamond to Finch, and Juliet to Theodore."

Indeed, Mr. Finch had appeared, and Miss Hart had risen to take his arm for the coming dance. Miss Juliet had been summoned by her eldest brother, and had taken the seat beside Mrs. Hart, listening closely as her brother spoke to her. This left Kitty sitting alone at the other end of the circle of chairs, looking wistfully at the couples moving toward the dance floor.

"You will forgive me, Miss Bennet," Robert declared, giving her another small smile. "But as a gentleman, I must not oblige any lady to sit down in a ballroom when she so clearly wishes to be dancing. Excuse me."

And, to Mary's astonishment, he rose from the seat beside her and approached her sister. Kitty accepted his invitation happily, and the two made their way onto the dance floor.

* * *

Mr. Hart was not Mr. Price, but Kitty nonetheless had a soft spot in her heart for him as the first gentleman she had fallen in love with in Bath, a full fortnight ago. His conversation was agreeable, and he was a fair dancer, though he had an unfortunate habit of glancing at his feet. Kitty was pleased, as they danced, to catch a glimpse of Mr. Price in another corner of the room, watching them.

"I am sure you must be very used to such grand events," she remarked, beaming at her partner, "but I confess I am not so accustomed to town dances as to country ones."

"Are they very different?"

"Why, everyone is so elegantly dressed," Kitty exclaimed, "and there are so many people, and we have not yet danced a reel—we dance a great many reels in the country!"

Robert smiled. "We dance our fair share of reels in Bath; fear not, Miss Katherine, you are not so out of place as you may think."

"Oh! I don't feel out of place," Kitty assured him, "indeed I think I could live quite happily in Bath forever, if only Papa would let me stay! The only thing that could be better than Bath is London itself—" And here she remembered again that Mr. Price was the owner of a house in Town, and lost herself briefly in happy memories of their earlier dance together.

"You are very unlike your sister, then."

"That is what everybody says," Kitty giggled. "Mary is not at all like the rest of us—like my sisters and me, I mean. She does not enjoy any of the things an ordinary person enjoys; all she cares about is her dull books and sermons. It is very kind of you, sir," she added, gazing up at him, "to humor her the way you do; she is not particularly agreeable in conversation, I know, but you don't seem to mind it at all!"

"On the contrary, I think her rather interesting," Robert replied.

Kitty laughed. "Lord! I believe that is the first time anyone has thought so—poor Mary! But I am sure she enjoys speaking with you, even if she won't admit it, and it is good of you to be a friend to her, for she hasn't many others."

"At any rate, Miss Katherine," Robert interjected gently, "I did not ask one sister to dance merely in order to speak of the other; tell me how you enjoyed the Sydney Gardens gala on Thursday, for I was unable to attend."

Kitty happily described the beauty of the gardens and, with less expertise, the splendor of the music. The remainder of the dance passed pleasantly, and while Kitty did not regret having fallen out of love with Robert Hart (for he was really rather quiet, and not nearly so gallant as Mr. Price), she was pleased to find him an agreeable companion.

Mrs. Bennet had returned to her seat by the time the dance was ended, and beamed upon the sight of Kitty and Robert arm-in-arm as they left the dance floor. "How well you dance, Mr. Hart!" she cried effusively. "And you, Miss Hart," she added, for Rosamond and Mr. Finch had returned as well. "I declare I could find no more charming couples! I believe there is to be another quadrille, and then we are to go in to supper. Is not the quadrille your favorite dance, Mary?"

Mary, who had been paying little attention to her mother, looked up in horror at the sound of her name. "No, it is not," she insisted, alarmed, but Mrs. Bennet was not to be deterred.

"I hope you are not so very tired, Mr. Hart, that you must sit down again," Mrs. Bennet said sweetly, addressing the younger Hart brother. "My dear Mary would not admit it, but she has always loved the quadrille above any other dance, and I am sure she would not refuse such a handsome partner."

"Indeed?" Robert met Mary's eyes with a hint of a grin. "Miss Bennet gave me to understand that she had no desire to dance."

Mrs. Bennet shot her daughter an exasperated glare, before turning a sunny countenance upon Mr. Hart again. "She is only modest, sir. She would not want to seem forward."

Kitty burst out into giggles, which she quickly stifled with her hand. The four Harts were watching their brother with amusement. "In that case, Miss Bennet," Mr. Hart said, after a pause, "I should be honored if you were to dance the quadrille with me."

"Oh—I don't—" Mary swallowed. Her mother was glaring at her, and Kitty's face with turning red in her attempts to restrain her laughter. She swallowed again. "Of course, sir."

The musicians struck up the opening of the quadrille, and Mary took Robert's extended arm. She could feel the hot blush staining her cheeks and face, and was certain she had never been more furious with her mother.

"There, you see, my dear," a satisfied Mrs. Bennet remarked to Kitty, as the pair took their places on the dance floor, "one must take control of a situation, in order to achieve one's ends."

"Lord, Mamma," Kitty replied, "I thought I should have died laughing!"

* * *

The problem with dancing was not only that it was inane and frivolous, though of course these things were true. The problem with dancing was that it was not something one could properly practice alone, in one's small tidy bedroom, or study in a book, or learn by means of diligent application and self-control. Consequently, Mary—who was very, very rarely asked to dance at any of the neighborhood assemblies in Meryton—was not a very good dancer.

"Forgive me, Miss Bennet," Mr. Hart remarked, as Mary stepped hard on his foot for the third time, "but you are not a very good dancer."

Mary looked up at him, shocked. "That is very direct."

"Excuse me. You seem to me like the sort of young lady who appreciates honesty, and I am the sort of gentleman who is accustomed to being honest. Besides, is it not also somehow liberating? I realize that you are not a very good dancer; you realize that I realize that you are not a very good dancer; and so you can stop trying so hard."

Mary was still rather put out, but did admit that it was easier to dance when she was not attempting to make Mr. Hart think she was good at it. Anyway, she thought, Mr. Hart was hardly the most accomplished dancer in the room; he kept looking down at his feet. She gave up trying to remember all of the steps her sisters had endeavored to teach her, and instead did her best to imitate what the couples around them were doing.

It seemed strange to her that _this_—dancing with a gentleman—was what her younger sisters had always swooned over. The way Kitty talked about balls and dancing was almost as bad as the way Lydia talked about balls and dancing: with plenty of giggles, and shrieks of delight, and blushes, and declarations that they were positively in love with whichever partner had most caught their fancy. Every man they danced with was the handsomest or most charming man in the world, and they always described the way their hearts had raced so till they were lightheaded. It had always sounded, to Mary, quite silly and shallow.

She was pleased to note that she was suffering from none of these idiotic symptoms. To be sure (she cast a critical eye about the room) Robert Hart was the only gentleman she would have cared to dance with. And yet—her heart was not racing, her palms were not sweating, and she did not feel in the least danger of falling into a swoon. She wondered, idly, what all of the fuss was about.

"I apologize for my mother's boldness," she said, in order to make conversation. "She has been determined to see me dance all evening. Perhaps now she will leave me in peace."

"Well," Mr. Hart replied, smiling, "I am pleased to be your sacrifice to filial duty."

"Thank you."

They danced in comfortable silence for another moment, before Mr. Hart spoke again.

"I am sorry that you are not enjoying Bath, Miss Bennet, although you have outlined all of your reasons to me and one or two of them seem quite sensible."

"They are all sensible," Mary said, rather annoyed.

"Perhaps this is a question you have already considered," he went on, as if he had not heard, "but if not, I hope you will do so. How, in your estimation, might your experience of Bath be improved?"

It was not a question Mary had considered directly, but she did so now. "I suppose," she said, slowly, "if there were a pianoforte in our lodgings, I should not feel so much as if I were neglecting my practice. And if—" She bit her lip. "If I were not obliged to spend every day indoors, with Mamma and Kitty, I imagine I should be somewhat happier."

Robert looked down at her. "My sister-in-law, Anne, is from Kent," he said. "She was raised on a very large estate there—Rosings Park."

"Yes," Mary interjected, for she had heard Mr. Collins speak lavishly of Rosings Park and all its glories, the former Miss de Bourgh included. She dimly remembered having felt some vague sense of jealousy at the way her cousin had praised the beauty and goodness of Lady Catherine's daughter.

"I have never been there, of course, but I have heard her talk about it, and it sounds quite beautiful. I understand she used to enjoy walking in the woods and fields very much, and I believe she struggled, when she and my brother were first married, with life in a city—even such a small one as Bath. I imagine you feel much the same way; except perhaps it is easier for you, Miss Bennet, as you are not here forever, and will go home in a few months."

"Perhaps," Mary answered, but she was doubtful.

"Anne has taken to walking in Carlton Gardens every evening, and it seems to ease her mind somewhat. Of course, she walks with my brother, since they are married, but you are not so unfortunately bound. I believe there are a few parks fairly close to Henry Street—Green Park cannot be more than ten minutes' distance, right along James Street. You might enjoy walking there."

"Thank you," Mary replied, looking up at him. The expression on Robert's face was one of honest sympathy, and she felt some of her irritation with him lessen.

"And as to the pianoforte," he went on, smiling at her, "this invitation may not be entirely proper when I am the one extending it; but if anyone objects, you may inform them that it comes from Rosamond. We have a perfectly serviceable pianoforte in our parlor which you are more than welcome to use, if you ever feel compelled to travel all the way down to Widcombe."

"Thank you," Mary said again, giving him a smile. "Indeed your sister has mentioned to me that I may practice upon the instrument, but—I thought perhaps she was only being polite."

"That is likely, but that does not mean she is insincere. Your sister visits Hart House fairly often; you are always welcome to join her."

"That is very kind of you."

"It is not particularly kind of _me_; I am almost never 'at home,' and it is Rosamond's instrument. But she will not mind."

"Well," said Mary, rather disgruntled, "I suppose it is very kind of _her_, then."

"Miss Bennet," Robert went on, solemnly, "I am sure you shall never enjoy Bath, but perhaps, this way, it shall be a little more bearable."

Mary was not at all certain that a park and a pianoforte would make Bath any less repugnant to her; but she was too polite to say so, and they continued dancing—neither very talented, but tolerably in step with each other.

* * *

Supper was uneventful, except that they were joined by the Fitzwilliams and by several of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's cousins. Their table was a merry one, and very full; and Kitty, who had always enjoyed being part of a large, merry party, did not think she could be any more content.

She was to be proven wrong, however; for upon their return to the ballroom, Mr. Price located her and asked her to dance with him again. She accepted with supreme delight, for though she had expected the invitation, it was infinitely gratifying to receive it when surrounded by friends who could look with satisfaction upon her good fortune.

"Miss Katherine has been asked to dance three times already this evening," she heard Juliet complain to her siblings, "and I have only danced once, and then it was only with Theodore."

Theodore Hart's exclamations of wounded dignity were the last things Kitty heard as she was led away from the circle of chairs.

"I confess, Miss Bennet, that though I have danced with one or two other young ladies this evening, I found their company quite dull when compared to yours," Mr. Price told her, smiling, as they faced one another across the floor. Kitty felt the blush rise in her cheeks, and regarded him shyly through her eyelashes.

"You do me too much credit, Mr. Price; I am sure I am hardly as clever and engaging as some of the other young ladies here."

"Lord! I don't care for cleverness; that is neither here nor there. No, Miss Bennet, you have about you a refreshing sincerity, which I admire. I believe sincerity to be one of the most important virtues a young lady can possess."

"I suppose that comes from being a country girl," Kitty replied coyly. "I have heard that many of the young ladies in Town are very artful."

"Indeed they are, and I cannot stand it. No, Miss Bennet, I have decided that you are the only dance-partner I shall enjoy while I am here in Bath; and I am sure I shall miss you very much when I leave."

"Oh! I hope you are not leaving very soon," Kitty declared, regarding him with alarm.

"No indeed; not for some months yet; but I must leave eventually," he said with a laugh. "There is always some business I must take care of in London. Besides which, Bath is not nearly as interesting in the winter as it is in the summer, and I always enjoy the spring Season in Town."

"I envy you," Kitty confessed. "I have never been to London in my life, except once or twice to visit my aunt and uncle in Cheapside, and papa has never let us go for the Season. I imagine it is very glamorous and exciting; do you receive a great many invitations?"

"Oh, a great many," the gentleman replied carelessly, "so many that I certainly cannot accept them all; and then there are the subscription balls at Almack's—I make a point of attending at least one every Season, for it is the best place to meet new acquaintance."

"I should dearly love to dance at Almack's," Kitty said wistfully.

"You would enjoy it, Miss Bennet; it is much more exclusive than places like the Assembly Rooms here in Bath, but always full nonetheless. And then there are the card-parties, and dinner-parties, and music-parties, and all the other types of parties one must attend—it makes me quite tired to think of it!" But he was laughing.

Kitty's head was spinning, and she regarded Mr. Price with some awe. Certainly she had known before that he lived in London; it had been one of his chief attractions; but to hear him talk about it was even more captivating than she had imagined. To think that one could grow tired of subscription balls and dinner-parties! Bath and its amusements suddenly seemed quite inconsequential to her, and thoughts of London filled her mind.

"Why, you shall be so busy that you will forget all about me," Kitty exclaimed, and blushed a moment later, for it sounded very forward. But Mr. Price was merely smiling at her.

"I could never forget about you, Miss Bennet," he said, rather softly, and Kitty's blush only grew hotter.

Kitty was beaming when Mr. Price returned her to her friends after the dance, and was not at all certain how she could manage to sit placidly in the ballroom for another hour or so without bursting with happiness. She was sure that someone should see the look upon her face and immediately guess that she was completely in love, and then she should be teased mercilessly. But, to her great fortune, she was not the center of attention upon her return, for Rosamond had been dancing as well, with a very handsome young gentleman whom Kitty had not met, and her siblings were sufficiently distracted.

"My dear sister," Theodore Hart said solemnly, as Rosamond's partner bowed and made his exit, "I could not see very well from this distance; was that young Lord Adlam you were dancing with?"

"Indeed it was, Theo," Rosamond replied patiently, "as you know perfectly well, for he greeted you quite politely when he came to ask for my hand, and again when he escorted me to my seat just now."

"How odd," Mrs. Hart remarked, smiling, "for I remember you telling me only last spring that he found you terribly dull."

"I am sure I never said so, Anne," Rosamond returned, her brow furrowed.

"That was more than a year ago, Anne," Robert chimed in. "Certainly he does not find her dull _now_; we have seen proof enough of that all summer."

"It is not my fault he asks me to dance at every ball," Rosamond said, giving her twin a dark look.

"And will continue to do so," Anne put in, "for I understand he is to spend the entire winter in Bath.

"A titled lord staying in Bath out-of-season!" Theodore exclaimed with mock astonishment. "Why ever should he do such a thing?"

"For his health, of course, Theo," Robert answered. "He must have a very difficult complaint, which obliges him to take the waters all year round."

The brothers and Juliet broke into laughter; even Mrs. Hart was smiling and squeezing Rosamond's hand affectionately. The Fitzwilliams seemed equally amused; but Kitty, noticing that Mr. Finch was seated beside Rosamond, thought it was rather unkind of the Harts to tease her about another gentleman when the one at her side was so much in love with her.

It would have been highly improper for Mr. Price to ask Kitty to dance a third time; but she could not help wishing he would, for it would have made the rest of the ball far more endurable. Instead, however, she was obliged to sit between her mother and her sister, rising only to dance a Scotch reel with Theodore Hart and a second cotillion with Colonel Fitzwilliam. She found both gentlemen highly agreeable dance partners; but they could not compare to Mr. Price, and even as she whirled about the dance floor, she found her eyes seeking out her preferred partner. She saw him, a few times, sitting with his friends, and once he caught her eye and smiled at her. Her face went so red that Colonel Fitzwilliam, concerned, asked if she felt quite well.

Even if she could not spend the rest of the evening with Mr. Price, however, Kitty managed to enjoy herself. The company was engaging, the music was cheerful, and the tea and cakes available in the parlor were delicious. It was not until the ballroom began slowly emptying, and the Harts rose to take their leave, that Kitty realized how tired she was.

"Lord!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, casting a glance at Mr. Hart's outheld pocketwatch. "I should not have guessed it was so late—I feel as though we have just finished supper! I suppose we must go; what a very agreeable evening! Collect your things, girls. Kitty, do not forget your shawl."

Kitty cast a last glance about the ballroom, but it seemed Mr. Price had already gone. With a sigh, she turned to nudge Mary, who had been dozing in her chair for the last half-hour.

* * *

"I am quite sick of hearing you talk about Mr. Price," Mary said wearily, as she and Kitty dressed for bed. Kitty, who had been discussing her favorite topic since they climbed into the carriage, only laughed.

"You will understand, Mary, when you have fallen in love," she declared wisely.

"I am sure I will not," Mary replied.

"La! Perhaps not," Kitty said agreeably. "But do you not think Mr. Price the most perfect gentleman you ever saw? He was so kind to me, Mary; he told me he should miss me ever so much when he returned to London."

"He does not know you well enough to miss you," Mary answered irritably. Kitty seemed not to hear.

"I daresay we were the handsomest couple dancing this evening. I know I saw several young ladies watching us, and they looked quite jealous. I do not think anybody has ever been jealous of me before!"

Mary, already in bed, chose not to reply. Kitty pulled the myriad pins from her hair in contented silence, before finally tying her curls behind her.

"Well," she sighed, falling onto her pillows, "I am sure I shall sleep for a hundred years; but was that not the loveliest evening of your life?"

There was no reply from Mary. Kitty, lifting her head to look over at the other bed, found her sister already asleep.

"I do not know why you are so tired," she muttered to herself, "for you danced only one dance, and I danced five." But she could not help smiling, for Mary looked quite peaceful, with one hand flung carelessly over her forehead and the other clutching the blanket. Raising herself onto her elbows, Kitty leaned over and blew out the candle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** School's out for the summer! Just kidding, it's not. However, I have finished my big project of the year—my 100-page American Studies honors thesis—and even though I also have an English senior project to finish as well as several term papers and other nonsense, I am pretending like that is not the case. Again, thank you all so much for your lovely, helpful and encouraging reviews. I won't yammer on this time—enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

_August 19, 1798_

_12 Henry Street_

_Bath, Somersetshire_

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_I apologize for not writing more promptly, but our time in Bath has been taken up with a great many social engagements—far too many, in my opinion, though of course our mother and sister disagree wholly. Since our arrival on the fourth of August, we have been herded from morning visits to dinner parties to balls, and while Katherine is quite overjoyed at having so many opportunities for trivial amusements, I naturally wish for more time in which I may read, write letters, or—my dear sister, I was going to write "practice my music," but of course that is out of the question here, for our lodgings contain no pianoforte._

_I am sure neither Katherine nor Mamma have taken the trouble to write to you since we have come away from Longbourn, and so I think it only proper that I acquaint you with the little news I have. I am pleased to report that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Fitzwilliam are both in very good health, news which I know will be exceedingly welcome to Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy. Their other Bath cousin, Mrs. Hart, is also well, as is her husband. The younger Mr. Hart and his twin sister are perfectly well, and although I understand that the youngest Miss Hart recently suffered from a summer cold, she is now almost fully recovered. Their esteemed father, Dr. Hart, is also very well. And, of course, the three of us here at Henry Street are all in good health._

"Lord!" Kitty exclaimed, peering over her sister's shoulder. "Haven't you ever written a letter before, Mary? You will make Lizzie cry with boredom, detailing who is well and who is not!"

Mary regarded her sister with stately annoyance. "This is the business of family correspondence, Katherine. The health of one's relations must always be of the utmost interest to the devoted family member."

"It would be interesting if somebody were dying, but when everyone is healthy it is only ever dull," Kitty grumbled. "Here, give me the pen."

"I will not!" Mary jerked her arm away from her sister's grasping hand. "Let go! Mamma!"

"Oh, let her write something, Mary, Lizzie is as much her sister as yours," Mrs. Bennet groaned, pressing a cold compress to her head. Having enjoyed four glasses of wine the night before, Mrs. Bennet was suffering from a nervous attack this morning.

"She will take up all the paper with news of the silly ball," Mary protested, but Kitty had gotten hold of the quillpen and pulled the writing-paper toward her.

"Indeed I shall, and it will be far more interesting than your reports on everybody's health," Kitty said triumphantly, bending over the letter.

_Dearest Lizzie,_

_This is Kitty writing, and I thought I had better cut in now before Mary bores you to death. I am very sorry for not writing a letter of my own, but we have been so busy that I have scarce had time to catch my breath! Bath is a marvelous town and I hope I shall never have to leave, although of course I know Papa will call us all home before October, or November at the latest._

_We went to a ball last night, where we met a great many friends. I wore my yellow muslin with the white sash, which I have not worn all summer, and Mamma says I was very much admired. I danced five full dances, including two with Mr. Price, a very handsome acquaintance of Rosamond's, who has a house in London but comes to Bath every year. I have now met him three times and am sure I am going to marry him._

_If not, I imagine I shall marry Mr. Hart (the younger, of course). I danced with him once last night. He is not so amusing nor so handsome as Mr. Price, nor does he have a house in Town, but he is very agreeable and Mamma says that would be an excellent match, if I could not get Mr. Price. But I am determined to get Mr. Price—he has already told me that he likes me exceedingly, and I think I could make him fall in love with me quite easily. I shall write again and let you know how things progress._

"Mamma," Mary complained, "she is only writing of Mr. Price."

"And why shouldn't she?" Mrs. Bennet replied, beaming at her younger daughter. "She danced twice with him last night! He must even now be falling in love with you, my dear—he will make you an offer by Michaelmas, and by Christmas I shall have four daughters married!"

"Two dances does not constitute a proper courtship," Mary said, scandalized. "We know nothing of his character or his moral values, and a marriage made in haste is the most dangerous kind. As Mr. Fordyce reminds us, 'There is nothing so transient, as the enthusiasm of—'"

"If I were you, Miss Mary, I would hold my tongue," Mrs. Bennet interrupted sharply. "I am still ashamed of the way you behaved to poor Mr. Hart last night—imagine, refusing his first offer of a dance! If you are not careful, you will be known all throughout town as a horrid bluestocking. A spinster in the making, they will call you, and I don't imagine you would like that at all."

"He never offered; he merely asked me if I ever danced," Mary answered, with great dignity.

Kitty snorted. "Lord, how ignorant you are, Mary. That is how a gentleman begins the question."

Mary's face went red, but she could not think of a suitable reply and instead she viciously seized the pen and paper from Kitty again. Her sister, having recorded everything she deemed necessary, did not mind letting them go.

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_This is Mary, again. My dear sister, I am sure you had nothing but good intentions in persuading our father to send us to Bath for a few months, but I am afraid your intervention in the case was something of a misstep. As you can see, our time here has done nothing to improve Kitty's mind or manners; if anything, being surrounded by so many gentlemen and so many amusements has only made her more thoughtless and imprudent. While I am loath to hint at the topic of our youngest sister's unfortunate marriage, I am sure you will understand that I do so only out of the utmost concern for Katherine's moral development. Do you really think it wise for us to spend more time than we already have in such a dangerous environment? I beg you will write to our father so he may hurry our return home, for you are the only one whose opinion he will consider seriously on such a subject. I would not be content to stay in Bath past Michaelmas, at the very latest._

"What are you writing now, Mary?" Kitty demanded, leaning closer. Mary, realizing that her chosen subject could only create a disturbance in the Henry Street household, reflexively bent to cover her writing.

"I am," she said carefully, "inquiring after the health of everybody at Pemberley."

"Oh, Lord," Kitty groaned, falling back into her chair.

_At any rate, sister, I hope you will write back to me with a favorable answer regarding the concerns I have raised. In addition, I hope that you, Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy and of course little Sophia are all very well. I eagerly await your reply. _

_With love,_

_Mary_

The morning had dawned bright and sunny, with a warm breeze that felt more like springtime than late summer. Mary, sealing and addressing the letter to Elizabeth, gazed out the window and imagined what the day must look like at Longbourn—the grass rippling gently in the breeze, the blue sky arching over the green meadows, perhaps the very first leaves beginning to delicately take on their autumn hues. She sighed, resting her chin in her hand.

The beauty of the morning notwithstanding, Mrs. Bennet—in deference to her aching head and fluttering nerves—had decided that they would make no visits that day. Kitty, who wanted only to recount the ball anyway, was not particularly bothered by this; it only meant that she would be able to talk of her own triumphs, without being obliged to make way in the conversation for some other young lady who had danced five dances and wished to discuss them. Mrs. Bennet was glad to accommodate her younger daughter.

"If it had not been so improper, my dear, I think he would surely have asked you a third time," she was saying. "But then of course everyone would have talked, and there would have been quite a scandal. Yet I think he was considering it!"

"When I was dancing with Robert, I saw him looking at us," Kitty confessed, glowing with pleasure. "I daresay he was jealous! For directly after supper he asked me again."

"One of the ladies in the tea-room was telling me that he has a house in Town, and drives the finest curricle she ever saw. Perhaps when you are married, he shall buy a barouche! They are so much more convenient for large parties."

"I am sure Lydia would be green with envy, for even if Wickham is so very handsome, Mr. Price is far handsomer."

"And he shall not oblige you to move to some place nobody has ever heard of," Mrs. Bennet agreed. "My dear, I shall come visit you in London every spring, and take your daughters to Almack's, and find them husbands!"

"I am sure Rosamond could not disapprove of him, if she only knew him better," Kitty remarked. She said it rather quietly, for she had not really intended to say it at all, but Mrs. Bennet heard her nonetheless and frowned.

"Disapprove of him! Whatever does she disapprove of him for? To think of anybody disapproving of him, the notion is quite ridiculous!"

"Perhaps," Mary put in, "she thinks him far too forward for a gentleman."

"Forward! What else should he be if not forward? It is the fashion to be forward these days," Mrs. Bennet sniffed. "I am sure Miss Hart means very well, Kitty, but I wish you would not listen so to her advice, for I begin to think her very prosy indeed. It is fortunate she is so beautiful, for otherwise I am sure no man would want her, if she is so dull as she sounds."

Kitty thought this rather unfair to her friend, and opened her mouth to say so. But Mrs. Bennet had already lost interest in discussing Miss Hart, and returned to the more favorable subject at hand.

"But think of having a house in Town, my dear!" she sighed happily, with renewed enthusiasm. "And I am sure he has another house in the country somewhere, as well, for a gentleman with a house in Town must always have a country house. You may be lady of a great estate, like your sisters; how would you like that?"

"Very much," Kitty replied readily, giggling. "Though I am tired of the country, and imagine I should like to stay in London as much as possible."

"Of course you should—who could blame you! And you could dress in all the newest fashions; and you could have Mary come to stay with you."

Mary, who had allowed herself to drift out of the conversation, was jerked abruptly back into it. Kitty was laughing.

"Lord! I am sure Mary would be as dull as ever, even if we were in London; wouldn't you, Mary! Even Mr. Price and I together could not oblige her to enjoy herself, and if you think we could find her a husband, Mamma, you are quite mistaken!"

Mary glared at her sister. "I would not want any husband _you_ could find for me," she said coldly. Kitty stopped laughing, and regarded her woundedly.

"How disagreeable you are this morning, Mary!" Mrs. Bennet chided.

"She is upset at only dancing one dance," Kitty snickered, regaining her good cheer, for a young lady who has danced twice with a handsome gentleman cannot remain wounded for long.

"She would have danced more, if she had been more pleasant," Mrs. Bennet remarked, giving Mary a pointed stare though she ostensibly addressed Kitty. "I am not surprised Mr. Hart did not ask her again. Perhaps if she had smiled at him, even once, the evening might have unfolded differently for her. Perhaps she might even have enjoyed your success, my dear."

Kitty's brow furrowed, for she could hardly imagine _Mary_ and _Robert_ as a romantic equivalent to herself and Mr. Price.

"I am not given to false smiles," Mary replied stiffly.

"Hush, child, whatever are you talking of! A young lady in a ballroom should only ever be smiling!"

"To smile indiscriminately is to invite improper flirtation and familiarity!" Mary retorted. "There is a very applicable line from Mr. Fordyce—"

"Oh, hang Mr. Fordyce, I have no interest in Mr. Fordyce!" Mrs. Bennet cried. "If you are ever to marry, you must learn to comport yourself with ease and charm, not glare about the room and drive away every gentleman who wishes to dance with you! I am sure you do so deliberately to disturb my poor nerves! I should be shocked if Mr. Hart ever approaches you again!"

"I do not care!" Mary exclaimed, flushing. "I do not like dancing, and I do not like talking with gentlemen, and I wish we had not come to Bath!"

Her outburst shocked her mother and sister, but it shocked herself even more; for however true the sentiment, she had never before addressed one of her parents with such crossness. She rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt with slightly trembling hands.

"Excuse me," she said, in a much quieter tone. "I should like to go walking."

"Walking! Where ever do you intend—"

"There is a park along James Street," she anticipated her mother's question. "I understand it is very near the Fitzwilliams'. I will not be very long. I only—I feel I must have some fresh air."

She hurried from the room. In her wake, Mrs. Bennet and Kitty regarded each other with wide eyes and open mouths.

* * *

Mary buttoned her spencer hastily as she hurried down the steps of the house, a book under her arm. Her face was still very hot, and she felt as if she could die of shame. Twice, as she walked quickly down the street, she stopped in her tracks and began to turn back, in order to apologize; but then a fresh wave of embarrassment would overcome her and she would feel quite unable to face her mother and sister. To think of herself shouting so childishly—she might as well have stamped her foot like Lydia! Mary gave a slight groan, closing her eyes and clutching her book tightly to her chest.

But the day was truly lovely, even if she was in Bath, and Mary could not be entirely distracted from taking pleasure in the warm sunshine and clear blue sky. Already, completely alone for the first time since she had left Longbourn, she began to feel somewhat refreshed. She could have wished that the carriages would not clatter so as they drove by, and that the people passing her would not chatter so loudly—but the weather was fine, and Mary lifted her face to the cheerful sun.

Mr. Hart had mentioned that Green Park was along James Street, which was—to her relief—among the few streets she could recognize, because it was where the Fitzwilliams lived, and she had visited there several times already in the company of her mother and sister. And so she made her way without much difficulty, although she did once turn left too early, and she kept thinking she had gone too far, and turning back to look again, carefully, at the buildings and streets she had passed, in case she had missed it.

She had not, however; for before very much longer, she came upon a narrow lane lined with trees, beyond which she could see an expanse of green, and beyond that a stretch of water. Thankful, Mary turned into the lane and found herself in a small, neatly-kept park, with a few large trees for shade and a little walking-path following the edge of the Avon. A few pairs of ladies and gentlemen were taking their exercise, but their talk was quiet, if it could be heard at all; even the noise of the city was muted by the still-thick summer foliage of the trees. Though she would have preferred the wide meadows and little lanes of Hertfordshire, Mary allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It was good, she felt, to be somewhere green.

She made her way down toward the bank of the river, enjoying the play of the sunlight upon the small lapping waves, and chose a tree situated somewhat distant from the walking-paths. It was even quieter here, and Mary took an appreciative seat at the base of the tree trunk, closing her eyes and imagining, for a moment, that she was back at Longbourn. She curled her legs beside her (taking care to cover her stockinged ankles with her skirt), settled her book on her lap, and began to read.

The book—Swedenborg's _Heaven and Hell_—was one Mary had read many times before, for it had been in her father's library since she could remember; and yet she was able to immerse herself in it for nearly an hour before realizing that she had suddenly grown rather chilled. She looked up from the well-worn pages to find that the sky, which had previously been so merrily blue, was grown hazier, and a few darkening clouds had covered the sun. Indeed, it began to look as though it would rain.

Mary had promised her mother she should not be out for very long, and here she had been gone for an hour; she would certainly receive a lecture on the state of her mother's nerves when she returned home. Besides which, Mary thought, her face growing warm again, she certainly ought to apologize for her earlier tantrum. Rising regretfully to her feet, she dusted a few blades of grass from her skirt and adjusted her bonnet.

She wished she was not compelled home so soon; for it had been comforting to spend some time out of doors, with only a book for company. But now, Mary reflected as she made her way up the gentle green slope toward the little lane, she at least knew where she could find some quiet and solitude, if she required it again.

Not, of course, that she expected any such requirement; for sensible Elizabeth could hardly fail to be moved by the arguments Mary had made in her letter, and certainly Mr. Bennet, at his elder daughter's behest, would be summoning his wife and younger daughters home to Longbourn before Mary should again reach such a point of strain. But—in case there was some delay in their departure—she was glad to know of someplace she could go.

As she left the park, however, Mary's thoughts turned from her relief to her embarrassment, and she began considering the apology she must make for her earlier behavior. Her mother was not the type of lady to make such apologies a simple affair for those who must offer them; she was wont to affect an air of affronted dignity, and to treat those who had injured her with frosty silences and haughty glares. Indeed, Mary half-suspected that Mrs. Bennet took some perverse pleasure in acting the wounded party, and she looked forward, with certain dread, to the prospect of being shunned in her own household for the next day or so.

Her mind was so much taken up with this matter that Mary did not see Miss Hart until she had nearly stumbled into her. The young lady was descending the staircase before the Fitzwilliams' door, and had taken the last step just as Mary was passing by. Mary, looking up from the cobblestones, stopped short to avoid a collision; Miss Hart, who had been speaking to her brother on her other side, turned abruptly to see her.

"Why, Miss Bennet!" Miss Hart exclaimed, curtsying swiftly. "Wherever do you walk so fast?"

"I am on my way home," Mary replied, curtsying. "Hello, Mr. Hart."

Mr. Hart gave her a short bow and a small smile.

"Indeed? That is where we are going—to your home, I mean. I had an idea of calling on your family, if they are not gone out."

"They are not.—My mother does not frequently go out on the morning after a ball."

"I see," Miss Hart said solemnly, but there was amusement in her eyes. "But I do hope she is receiving visitors." Mary assured her that this was the case. "May we then walk with you?—Do not be rude, Robert; give Miss Bennet your arm."

Mary tucked _Heaven and Hell_ carefully under her elbow and took Robert's proffered arm.

"Since I know now where you were going, Miss Bennet, I must wonder where you were coming from," Miss Hart said, smiling at her. "Have you been enjoying this lovely morning?"

"Indeed I have."

"And how have you spent it?"

Mary flushed slightly. "At Green Park, Miss Hart; alone with my book."

"That is a very rewarding way to spend a morning," Miss Hart agreed.

"I am pleased to note that you are so quick to follow my advice, Miss Bennet," Robert remarked, regarding her with a raised eyebrow. "Barely twelve hours have passed since I mentioned Green Park to you; what an eager student you are!"

"Such a mention was fortuituous, coming as it did before such a beautiful day," Mary replied, though her blush had not faded. "I imagine I should have been less eager had I awoken to rain this morning."

"And did you find the place as pleasing as I hoped you would?"

"It was very pleasing," Mary admitted, "but I should still prefer to be in Hertfordshire. You must not devote your energy to inducing me to like Bath, Mr. Hart; I am afraid the project is a hopeless one."

"I do not care whether you like Bath, Miss Bennet; I would only wish you to be less than completely miserable while you are in it."

"I suppose that is the genius of the physician," Miss Hart laughed, "to lessen our suffering just enough that it is not entirely unbearable.—Oh don't _glare_ at me, Robert, I am only teasing."

The first drops of rain were speckling the cobblestones as they left the Fitzwilliams', and by the time they turned onto Henry Street, a rather steady downpour was falling. Mary shielded her book as much as possible, and despite the slight protection her bonnet and spencer afforded from the rain, she was glad to reach the steps of the Bennets' lodgings.

Mrs. Bennet appeared in the vestibule as Mary stepped into it, looking infuriated; but whatever reproaches were on her lips faded as she caught sight of the Harts. Her expression shifted rapidly into one of great satisfaction.

"Why, Mary, you did not mention you would be bringing your friends home with you!" Mrs. Bennet cried, smiling broadly. "Dear Miss Hart, dear Mr. Hart, you are very welcome!"

The twins received Mrs. Bennet's welcome with pleasure, and as they were led into the small parlor, were greeted with an exclamation of delight from Kitty, who rose from the settee to give a brief curtsy.

"I am glad so glad you are come, Rose," Kitty chattered, pulling her friend down to sit beside her. "Shall we not discuss the ball? I am sure there is a great deal to be said about it!"

"Is there indeed?" Rosamond laughed. "I can think of nothing which we have not said already, for we spent most of the evening together!"

"Yes, but now we may talk of the ladies' gowns, and the skill of the dancers, and the musicians, and so on, with all honesty; for certainly we were obliged to be polite last night, when we were in company, and now we are not. Did you find Miss Dalton's gown as horrid as I did?"

Rosamond confessed that she had not observed Miss Dalton, and Kitty launched into a detailed description of that young lady's unfortunate _ensemble_. Mary, about to deliver a stern reprimand to her sister on the nature of gossip, was distracted by Mr. Hart taking the seat beside her.

"I am sure, Miss Bennet, that we may have a more sensible conversation than theirs," he remarked quietly.

"Certainly," Mary agreed, turning to him. (Her mother, she noticed, had slyly disappeared from the parlor.) "Is there any topic which you prefer, sir?"

"I had not given much thought to the matter," Robert replied, with what Mary suspected was mock gravity. "Perhaps you are more prepared than I."

"I have just been reading Swedenborg; shall we discuss theology?"

"Lord! No, for that is a topic which inevitably leads to debate, and I have no love of argument. I would have you choose something rather more commonplace."

"I have no desire for a _commonplace_ conversation," Mary answered, brow furrowed. "If we are to discuss commonplace topics, by which I suppose you mean the weather, society, or even last night's ball, we may as well join my sister and yours. I do not believe conversation should be limited to the commonplace, for in that way one learns nothing of one's conversational partner. Since you have professed a commitment to honesty, I may tell you frankly that I care not whether you find this rain unseasonable, or about your visit to the Fitzwilliams this morning, or whether you found the ball enjoyable."

She stopped abruptly, suddenly aware that she sounded quite rude. Robert, however, was regarding her with interest.

"When did we discuss honesty?" he asked.

"Last—last night," Mary reminded him, faltering somewhat. "While we were dancing. You told me that I was not a good dancer."

"Ah! Yes, I remember."

"I am glad," Mary ventured, "that we have reached a point in our acquaintance at which we may dispense with trivial niceties."

Robert gave her a slight smile. "And this only our third meeting! How quick you are to make friends, Miss Bennet."

Mary stared at him, for this was certainly not the case—but before she could say anything, Kitty interjected, having overheard this last.

"Indeed she is not, Mr. Hart! There are some neighbors of ours in Hertfordshire, whom we have known all our lives, with whom Mary is still exceedingly awkward."

"Katherine!" Mary hissed, reddening. Her sister ignored her.

"I suppose it must be a great compliment to you, Mr. Hart," she went on, prettily, "that you are so quickly taken into Mary's confidence, when she is generally so very reserved. Oh, _don't_, Mary!" she added, for Mary was glaring at her very fiercely indeed. "I haven't said anything naughty; I can't see why you should scowl at me so!"

"I am sure the compliment is to your sister, rather than to my brother," Rosamond interposed, smiling gently at the red-faced Mary. "Miss Bennet must be a very accomplished judge of character, in order to have discerned my brother's better qualities so easily. I confess, I am still searching for them."

Kitty laughed at this, and Rosamond deftly engaged her in conversation again, this time on the topic of some planned outing for the next day. Mary turned back to Mr. Hart with mingled relief and embarrassment.

"My sister often speaks without consideration," she confessed quietly. "You must excuse her."

"Miss Bennet, you forget that I have siblings of my own," Robert replied. "I am well acquainted with the embarrassment which a family member might unthinkingly produce—or thinkingly, for that matter."

"Not so well acquainted as I am," Mary muttered, and then immediately regretted it. Robert was regarding her with curiosity, and she hastened to cover her mistake. "I only meant that Miss Hart seems to be of a very even temper."

"Rosamond is mild-mannered enough, and Juliet as well," Robert allowed, casting a glance at his sister, "but Helena—she is the eldest—has always been very passionate, and was once known by all our acquaintance for her wildness. And of course my brother suffers from a persistent inability to hold his tongue, which is why he has become a lawyer. The two of them were terrible as children; I believe our parents must have been relieved when Rose and I proved comparatively tranquil, however much we may bicker."

"The ability of two parties to argue, without loss of affection on either side, marks a truly valuable companionship," Mary intoned. "The bonds of familial love are the foundations upon which our civilization is built, and the strength of those bonds determines the strength not of only our family, but of our entire society."

"You speak as though you are quoting from something," Robert remarked, after a slight pause. "Is that truly what you believe?"

"It is," Mary replied, stiffly.

"Then I suppose I agree with you."

"Thank you."

"Or I agree with Mr. Fordyce, or Mr. Johnson, or whomever else you have been reading," he added. Mary fixed him with a rather hard stare, and to her surprise, he gave a small laugh.

* * *

Mrs. Bennet, re-entering the parlor at a strategic moment (which she had been able to gauge by listening at the door), attempted to prevail upon the twins to stay for an early tea; but Miss Hart, startled to find the hour grown so late, was apologetic in insisting that they must away. They had promised to meet their sister-in-law in town, and it was already a quarter of an hour past the agreed time.

"And Anne shall not be cross with me, for she is never very cross," Rosamond said, buttoning her spencer, "but she may be disappointed, and that is even worse. —But, Kitty, I shall see you tomorrow; and Miss Bennet, we should love it if you will complete our party."

"She will be delighted," Mrs. Bennet promised, as Mary opened her mouth to refuse whatever it was Rosamond was inviting her to. "Good-bye, Miss Hart; good-bye, Mr. Hart. Has the rain stopped? Here, Miss Hart, you may take my umbrella.—No, no, you shall give it to Kitty tomorrow, and she will bring it home."

Miss Hart thanked her very kindly, handing the umbrella to her brother, and Mr. Hart gave the ladies a bow, before they turned and hurried down the steps into the street, casting wary glances at the sky above. No sooner had the door closed behind them than Mrs. Bennet turned to Kitty.

"And where are you going tomorrow?" she demanded eagerly.

"Oh—only to walk about town," Kitty replied vaguely. "There is a bookshop which Rosamond and her sisters have been meaning to visit, and perhaps we may go to a few other places. I daresay I may need some money, Mamma."

But her mother was not listening. "Rosamond and her sisters!" she repeated with disappointment. "Then neither of her brothers are to join you?"

Kitty replied in the negative, and Mrs. Bennet sighed. "But," she declared, brightening and turning to Mary, "you shall spend the day with the sisters; and that is something. A friendship with a gentleman's sister is one way of securing him; for the judgment of the sister very often guides the judgment of the brother. Look only at Jane and Mr. Bingley—she was a great favorite of his sisters before he ever married her!"

"I should not think it a great compliment to be a favorite of Miss Bingley's," Kitty said, wrinkling her nose.

"Nonsense, child; for she is so very elegant, even if she is unmarried at twenty-four! Mary, my love, I hope you will spend tomorrow making yourself very agreeable to Miss Hart. I daresay she has a particular influence over her brother's opinion; I doubt he shall make any match of which she does not approve."

Mary was prepared to disclaim any such intention, but Mrs. Bennet was already retiring to the parlor. Kitty, to Mary's surprise, was regarding her very thoughtfully, but said nothing.

It was not until much later, when the two sisters were preparing for bed, that Kitty gave voice to her thoughts. "Mamma seems to think you shall marry Robert Hart," she announced, without any prelude, as she took down her hair.

Mary, who had returned to _Heaven and Hell_, did not look up. "Mamma is only eager to have me married, and Mr. Hart is as good a target as any," she replied. "I am sure her enthusiasm shall fade when she realizes that such an event is unlikely."

She was puzzled when Kitty did not reply immediately, and glanced away from her book to find her sister regarding her curiously. "What?" she asked irritably.

"Nothing," Kitty said airily, "only I do not think it is so unlikely as you think."

Mary rolled her eyes and returned to her reading.

"Really," Kitty went on, insistently, "I begin to think you may be married—not _before_ I am, of course, but very soon after, at least! Robert Hart likes you; he told me last night that he thinks you are interesting, which I meant to tell you earlier but I had forgot. And he goes out of his way to talk to you."

"That is only because you and his sister are usually so engaged that he has no one else to talk to," Mary objected.

"You boasted to me only a fortnight ago that you knew him better than I do," Kitty returned. "You like him, Mary, even if you don't want to admit it!"

"I have no trouble admitting it," Mary said, with dignity. "I do like Mr. Hart. I find his company interesting, if occasionally trying, and his conversation to be above the common class of silly pleasantries. I believe him to be an intelligent gentleman of good principles."

"Lord," Kitty sighed, flopping onto her bed in defeat, "you can even make being in love sound dull as anything!"

"I did not say I was in love with him."

Kitty raised herself onto her elbows, and scrutinized her sister's face carefully for any signs of a telltale blush at the word "love." To her disappointment, she could discern none—although that may have been the fault of the dim candlelight. "You did not have to say so," she said aloud. "I can discern it in all your looks."

Yet Mary's complexion remained unchanged. "I consider Mr. Hart a friend," she responded, closing her book and setting it on the table beside her. "But I do not consider him anything more, and I do not suppose I ever shall." She hesitated slightly, then continued. "I do not _wish_ to be married, Kitty; not now, at least."

"Two more months with Robert," Kitty said confidently, "and your mind shall change." She paused. "And I should like you to know that I am giving him up," she added.

"I thought you only loved Mr. Price," Mary said drily.

"I do, but I had been thinking that if I could not marry Mr. Price, I should marry Robert; that is what I wrote to Lizzie. But I shall give Robert up entirely, for it would not do to steal a sister's beau."

"He is not my beau."

"La! I think he is, even if you won't admit it, and so I shall think of him no longer, except as Rosamond's brother, and I suppose as my future brother." She leaned forward and blew out the candle. "Goodnight, Mary."

"Goodnight," Mary murmured, and rolled over onto her side.

Kitty's breathing was deep and even with sleep before very long, but Mary found herself unable to drift off. Instead, she lay awake, gazing at the rain outside the window and considering her sister's words.

If Mary were a proper heroine, this would have been the moment in which she realized that she _was_ in love with Robert Hart, or at least very well on her way to being so. Such a revelation would have provoked any number of responses—a gasp of surprise, a sudden jolt out of her bed, perhaps even tears. She would have resolved to make her feelings known to their object, and perhaps Mrs. Bennet's fondest wish would have come true, in that she would have had all five daughters married before another month went by.

Yet Mary is not a proper heroine, and this is not that type of story. Instead of realizing that she was deeply in love with her hero, Mary lay quietly in the darkness, wondering why she was not.

Did she not find Robert Hart's company easier to bear than that of any gentleman she had ever known? Did she not find him agreeable, sensible, interesting, even occasionally amusing? Was she not refreshed by his forthrightness, by his disdain for idle chatter? Did she not even—when she obliged herself to consider the matter—find him handsome? Certainly, she was aware of the intelligence in his gray eyes, the careless sweep of his fair hair, the strong line of his jaw, his tall frame and broad shoulders. (At this last thought, Mary felt herself blush slightly, for she was not used to thinking of gentlemen in such terms.)

She had heard Lydia and Kitty sigh over many such men, and even many far stupider and less handsome men, for much of her life; and she had always promised herself that she should never indulge in such meaningless attractions, but should only ever form an attachment to a man of sense and education—a man for whom she could have a deep and honest respect. Was not Robert Hart precisely such a man?

With a sigh, Mary turned over in her bed. She had not been unaware of her mother's hopes for her marriage (Mrs. Bennet, after all, had no great genius for subtlety) but for whatever reason, she had not considered such hopes to be serious until Kitty had begun talking about them. Now that she had been explicitly confronted with the prospect of marriage, she found herself curiously uneasy. The thought of tying herself eternally to someone else—to be dependent on another, to have another dependent on her—to give up her long solitary days, her reading, perhaps even her music—Mary's heart began to beat rather quickly and she turned onto her back, gazing at the ceiling with wide eyes.

She attempted to calm herself. Their acquaintance, as yet, was a short one; Robert Hart had not made a proposal; he had not even hinted at such an attachment; and unless he did so, which she found unlikely (whatever Kitty may say), she could have no cause to worry. Furthermore, she reasoned, even if she were to marry him, he surely would not force her to give up the things he knew she enjoyed. He had made none of those abominable comments which gentlemen sometimes made, about the unsuitability of reading as a pastime for young women. And (Mary was beginning to grow rather sleepy, and turned again onto her side, closing her eyes) she already knew that he enjoyed music—or his family did—after all, they had a pianoforte, and went to concerts—

She was asleep within another minute, and dreamed not at all of proposals, engagements, weddings and marriages.

* * *

Mary was not particularly looking forward to the next day's ramble; but she was cheered greatly by the prospect of visiting a book-shop, and supposed that she could put up with a great deal of silly gossip and idle chatter if it meant that she would be returning home with a new book—or even two—in hand. Indeed, she thought with satisfaction, such a prize would make her next weeks in Bath far more tolerable than the previous ones had been, and she would have something to read on the looming journey home.

Mrs. Hart and the two Miss Harts collected them shortly after breakfast. The rain of the previous day had petered out into a light drizzle overnight, and by morning there were no more drops, although a thin mist hung over the city and there was a chill in the air. Mrs. Bennet insisted that Miss Hart keep the borrowed umbrella for the day, though Mrs. Hart had brought one as well, and further insisted on Mary carrying the spare, in case the gray skies above them should make good on their promise.

"It would not do to have you girls fall ill, for then you could not go to any more balls," she declared. Kitty, looking aghast at the prospect, hurried upstairs to exchange her thin summer shawl for a spencer. This delayed them another ten minutes, for Kitty—having flung her clothes haphazardly about the room despite Mary's instructions to put them away neatly—could not find a spencer, and eventually ended up donning one which must have been packed by mistake, for it was too tight across the shoulders. Eventually, however, the five ladies set off from Henry Street, headed north and west toward the center of town.

"Have you finished the book you were reading?" Rosamond asked Mary as they walked.

"I have not; but it is one I have read before, and so I shall have no difficulty forgoing it in favor of a new one."

"I suppose you must read with great discipline: never putting a book aside until you have finished it, and reading each sentence with great consideration and thought."

Mary glanced at her; the young lady's large eyes were fixed on the street ahead of them, but there was a small smile on her face which reminded Mary very much of Robert.

"That is how I believe one should read," she answered stiffly. "How else can one properly absorb lessons, and consider theories? I believe reading to be fundamentally an act of reflection and self-improvement."

"You do not read for amusement?"

"I read for enjoyment, for I enjoy reading; but I never look to be amused."

"So I suppose you restrict your reading to works of theology and philosophy."

"Indeed I do, although I occasionally peruse works of history. I have never read a novel," Mary remarked with some pride.

"But do you not think you are limiting yourself? Surely a comprehensive reading ought to include works of more than one or two kinds—I believe there are as many important ideas to be found in works of fiction as in books of sermons."

"I must disagree," Mary replied, annoyed.

Miss Hart laughed. "But how can you disagree? You tell me you have never read a novel; and I am sure you cannot judge the entire contents of a book you have never opened."

"I have heard enough young ladies discuss such books to form an adequate opinion of the genre," Mary replied, rather haughtily.

Miss Hart was regarding her with great consideration. Mary, growing discomfited by the gaze, looked around for Kitty—for indeed she was surprised her sister had not taken up her customary place at Rosamond's side—only to find her quite happily engaged in conversation with Mrs. Hart and the younger Miss Hart, who was relating some story with much animation.

"You play the pianoforte, do you not, Miss Bennet?" Miss Hart asked. Mary turned back to her, somewhat startled by the change in conversation.

"I do."

"I remember your telling me of your disappointment that there was not an instrument in your lodgings here."

"Indeed, it is very unfortunate; I am most unwilling to neglect my practice." Mary hesitated. "Your brother was kind enough to invite me to practice upon your instrument."

Miss Hart made no reply. Mary suddenly felt quite forward, and hurried to atone for her mistake.

"Of course, I am sure he made the invitation without consulting you, and I should not dream of taking advantage of such generosity. I only meant—"

Miss Hart, laughing, waved a dismissive hand. "I made the same offer myself, Miss Bennet, though you do not remember it; and indeed I am rather put out that you will only take the invitation seriously when it comes from my brother! But you are always welcome at Hart House—though now I am of a mind to add a condition."

"I beg your pardon?" Mary stared at her.

"Oh, it is nothing so very trying," the young lady replied, still smiling. (Mary wondered if Miss Hart ever frowned, or looked serious. She could not imagine so.) "I only thought I might oblige you to read a novel, in return for unlimited use of our pianoforte."

"A novel?" Mary sighed. "Miss Hart, I have told you that I do not read such works."

"Indeed you have, or I should not challenge you so," Miss Hart replied lightly. "Will you not, Miss Bennet? I shall select one for you—my sisters may help me choose—and I promise you will enjoy it, or at least find it interesting."

Mary made no response. She wished Miss Hart would not pester her so; but at the same time, she was rather anxious to resume her everyday practice. As if discerning the trend of Mary's thoughts, Miss Hart added,

"The instrument is a fine one, and my father takes a great deal of care with it, and so it is in excellent condition. And I may have some music which you have not played before—were you not telling me the importance of attempting new pieces? My family and I should love to have you play for us; my father has always enjoyed having a house full of music."

"And in exchange for the use of your instrument, I must read a book of your choosing?" Mary answered, disgruntled. Miss Hart laughed.

"I shall not hold you to this challenge, Miss Bennet; even if you refuse, you are welcome to the pianoforte. But I should be interested to hear your opinion of the genre once you have sampled it—the judgment of a young lady so widely read as yourself must always be particularly valuable."

This soothed Mary's irritation somewhat, and she gave a small sigh. "Very well, Miss Hart; I suppose it can do no great harm for me to read one silly novel."

"Do not worry, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart replied, taking her arm cheerfully. "I shall take great care to choose one that is only _somewhat_ silly."

Her tone was teasing, and Mary, though hardly looking forward to the experience, did not bother to remove her arm from Miss Hart's gentle grip.

There was a bookseller's in Hertfordshire, which Mary sometimes visited when she walked into town with her sisters. It was a small, cramped shop, dark and smelling of old writing-paper, with piles of books falling onto each other in the gloom. Mary had never found her visits there particularly productive, for the selection was rather limited: a few books of very old poetry, one or two novels which had been popular several years ago, and, in deference to their country surroundings, a great many almanacs (spanning back several years) and books on plowing, planting, irrigation, and other matters which were primarily of interest to gentleman farmers. It was rare for Mary to purchase something new from there; her reading was mostly drawn from her father's library (though even he possessed rather too much poetry and fiction for her taste) or, with the advantage of her eldest sister's marriage, from Mr. Bingley's library.

The shop into which Miss Hart directed them, however, was not at all like the little shop in Meryton. It was large and quite spacious, with large bright windows facing the street and long, tall shelves lining the walls and running the length of the floor. Mary's heart lifted at the sight of so many books.

Her pleasure must have shown in her face, for Miss Rosamond, glancing at her, remarked, "Is it not a fine place? I confess, there are few sights which bring me more satisfaction than that of a very well-stocked bookshop."

"It does indeed look quite promising," Mary agreed.

The other ladies entered the shop only a moment behind them, and Kitty exclaimed at the size of the room, and remarked that it should make a very tolerable ballroom, if all of the shelves were taken out. Mary gave her a very disapproving stare at this, but Miss Rosamond only laughed: "I am sure Mr. Mostyn would frown upon such an action; but perhaps we shall find you a novel with plenty of balls in it, for that, I think, is the next best thing!"

"Rose, how much may I spend?" queried the younger Miss Hart, looking eagerly about the room.

"Papa said you may purchase one new volume of poetry, but no more, for he fears you will begin speaking in verse; and," the elder sister continued, more loudly, as Miss Juliet made her way into the shelves at a rapid pace, "do not forget the book which Robert asked us to bring for him—he will be most displeased if we come home without it, and he will sulk for days!"

"I shan't forget!" Miss Juliet promised.

Miss Rosamond turned and clasped Mrs. Hart's hands with a great deal of affection.

"You and I, Anne, have a particular task," she declared, "for I have been cruel to poor Miss Bennet, who never reads novels, and have forced a promise that she will read at least one while she is here in Bath. I am to choose it for her; but now that I have extracted her agreement, I find myself fearful of incurring her displeasure, and reject every choice as soon as I have made it. Will you help me?"

"This is a challenge indeed," Mrs. Hart agreed with a smile, "and you cannot undertake it alone."

"We must choose something interesting, but not trivial; something which has an excellent moral lesson, but is not dull; there must be a good story, but it cannot be _only_ a story—in short, Anne, we must find the most perfect novel ever written—no small task, to be sure!"

"Perhaps one of Mrs. Parson's," Mrs. Hart mused, and the two of them, laughing, drew together toward one of the shelves.

"Well, Mary," Kitty said quietly, with great satisfaction, "I am glad to see you have made friends with Rosamond, for I had hoped you would."

"Is that why you chose not to walk with her?" Mary demanded.

"Indeed it is, for I remembered what Mamma said to you last night, about the opinion of the sister bearing on the opinion of the brother; and I thought I ought to give you every opportunity to speak with her and make her think well of you. Is she not the most agreeable young lady you ever met?"

"You have said the same thing about Miss Darcy, and about Maria Lucas, and about countless other friends of yours," Mary said drily.

"I daresay you will like very much to have her as a sister in law."

She said this rather too loudly for Mary's liking, and though the Hart sisters seemed not to have heard, Mary rounded on her sister with a hiss of "Kitty!"

"Oh, la, stop acting as though it is some secret!"

"There _is_ no secret—I am not going to marry Mr. Hart, and I wish you would stop talking about it."

"You are grown very sensitive about the matter, I see," Kitty said approvingly, "and that is a certain proof that you are in love with him. You need not conceal your feelings from me, Mary; I know very well what it is to be in love. "

She said this last very wisely, with an air of worldliness; and Mary, entirely too frustrated to face her sister with equanimity, stalked away toward the shelves. Kitty, very pleased with herself, hurried to join Rosamond and Anne.

Juliet was the first to make a selection, for she had had a book in mind for some time; and Kitty followed soon after, selecting a novel by Mary Hays which Rosamond assured her was "very tragic indeed; it made Anne cry, the first time she read it." (Mrs. Hart, laughing, did not bother to deny this.) Mary, after a great deal of consideration, chose a German text titled _Foundations of Natural Right_, which looked suitably difficult and philosophical.

"Why, that is the book which my brother asked us to bring for him," Juliet exclaimed, upon discovering Mary's selection. "Pray, where did you find it?"

Mary directed the girl to the proper area of the shop, ignoring Kitty's very significant look.

At length, only Mrs. Hart and Miss Rosamond remained at the shelves, searching for Mary's novel. They had enlisted the assistance of Kitty, hoping that her knowledge of her sister's character would be an asset in making their selection, but Kitty had only advised that they choose the dullest book they could think of, for Mary would be sure to approve of it. Mary, lingering nearby, overheard snatches of conversation:

"Not that one, for it is very entertaining but there is nothing _to_ it—"

"This one has an excellent mystery, but the ending was quite wrong; she should not have married the Count—"

"What about _Camilla_? But then _Camilla_ is all about marriages—"

"Nay, Anne, not that one, for I thought the love story very ill done; I could not see what he liked in her, for she never did anything worth liking—"

"No, no, Rose, that one is rather scandalous—"

"I shall not read anything scandalous," Mary interjected.

"Of course you shall not; that is why we are rejecting it," Mrs. Hart replied, with something approaching impatience, and Mary, injured, withdrew.

At last, the ladies selected a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe —_The Italian_—for it dealt with religion in very interesting ways, according to Miss Hart. "You may ignore much of the Gothic parts, if you will, for in some places I think she is rather overbearing; but the characters are quite well done. I do hope you enjoy it, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart said, with great sincerity. "And," she added, smiling, "we shall be happy to see you at Hart House whenever you decide to begin your practice."

Miss Hart was even good enough to offer to pay for the book, since she was compelling Mary to read it; but Kitty declared this ridiculous, and added Mary's novel to her own as they approached the shopkeeper. "Mamma has given me far more money than I needed," she confided in her sister, "and I could not face her if I came home without spending most of it, after spending all the day in town!"

* * *

_August 23, 1798_

_Pemberley_

_Derbyshire_

_My dear Mary,_

_I am glad to hear that you are all so well, and will ask you to pass along the compliments of everybody here at Pemberley to Mamma, Kitty, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Fitzwilliam and all our other mutual acquaintance._

_My dear sister, I shall not waste very much time with pleasantries, for Sophia is only napping and I am fear I shall be interrupted when she wakes. Your concern for our sister is commendable indeed, but I should like, if I could, to ease your mind somewhat on that score. The circumstances in which Lydia and Kitty have found themselves differ in a few important particulars, and I think it therefore unlikely that Kitty should take such a disastrous step._

_Lydia was sent from home in the company of the Forsters, a respectable couple who were nonetheless, at that time, only very lately known to us, and were not connected with our family in any but the most casual of ways—that is, we had met them a few times in the neighborhood, and Lydia and Mrs. Forster had become friends. While the Forsters were certainly not to blame for Lydia's elopement, you must admit that Kitty is watched over by very different guardians. While our mother may not do much to check Kitty's wilder impulses, Colonel Fitzwilliam—our cousin-in-law—is a very intelligent man, who should certainly recognize any disturbing signs in Kitty's behavior. The family connection on which that relationship is based will certainly provide the good Colonel with incentive to watch over our sister, even if his own integrity were not enough to ensure it. Furthermore, we have other friends in Bath, in whose judgment I have the utmost faith. Kitty may appear unsupervised—she may even believe herself to be so—but indeed, that is far from the truth._

_I must also add, that while I certainly should never call Kitty an entirely sensible girl, she nonetheless possesses a certain understanding of propriety which I believe Lydia never did. Kitty has always been the quieter of the two, even the more prudent (a relative term, given the characters of our youngest sisters, but an important one nonetheless), and I believe her long separation from Lydia has wrought a positive change in her behavior. Certainly, she delights in balls and parties and fine things—but I doubt she is willing to forsake her family, her friends and her reputation in order to secure such amusements. If you have faith in nothing else, dear Mary, have faith in Kitty herself. She is not so heedless as you may think her, particularly when she is away from Lydia. Indeed, Mary, I believe your influence may be useful to her, though I doubt she will ever admit it._

_In short, Mary, I do not believe it entirely necessary for you all to be removed from Bath at the present time. Our father will send for you in a month or two, at any rate, and until then I believe it will do you good—even more good than it will do Kitty—to meet new people, make new friends and enjoy new experiences. Perhaps you will find that Bath is not so dangerous as you think it. Kitty has told me of her attachments and attractions; have you any to share?_

Mary snorted.

_We are all well here, although Georgiana recently suffered from a slight summer cold—perhaps the same which afflicted the youngest Miss Hart! Sophia grows larger and more curious every day, and every day I am quite amazed to realize how much she resembles Darcy. (He tells me that he is always amazed to realize how much she resembles me, the dear creature!) The leaves are beginning to change, and we lit our first fire of the season in the west parlor only last night…_

The rest of the letter regarded largely trivial matters, to Mary's mind, and she put it aside in disappointment. So they were not to leave Bath! She was obliged to another month, at least, of silly engagements, foolish entertainments and trivial talk of dancing and love and marriages. Mary heaved a great sigh, allowing her to fall back upon her bed in a manner she usually considered careless.

And yet, she reflected, as she stared at the ceiling and listened to Kitty and Mrs. Bennet chattering in the parlor, her disappointment was not so great as she had expected. She had, to her great surprise, discovered things she enjoyed in Bath—the park and the bookshop, namely, and also the company of Mr. Hart. If she had books to read, places to walk and a sensible friend with whom to enjoy conversation, she might at least enjoy some escape from the constant parade of silliness which formed her everyday life at Henry Street.

Mary rose from her bed and began making her way downstairs to join her mother and sister. Perhaps, she thought, she might visit Hart House tomorrow, and take up her music once again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Thank you all so so so much for your patience! I guess summer no longer equals free time once you're a grown up with a job and bills to pay and everything. Ugh. Can I just go back to being a broke lazy college student, please? (No just kidding please don't make me go back to that!)

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

Kitty looked very smug, as she and her mother donned their bonnets in preparation for a walk to Hart House, when Mary joined them in the vestibule, wrapping a light shawl about her shoulders.

"Are you coming with us to see Rose, Mary?" Kitty asked innocently.

"Miss Hart has invited me to practice upon her pianoforte," Mary replied, ignoring the matching triumphant gleams in the eyes of her relatives.

"How _very _kind of her!" Mrs. Bennet fluttered. "But would you not like to borrow one of Kitty's dresses for the morning? She has some very pretty summer prints which would suit you well."

"I am certain that Miss Hart will not notice whether or not I am wearing summer prints," Mary said drily.

"It is not Miss Hart I have in mind," Mrs. Bennet answered, with a wink which made her daughter grimace slightly.

"We will not likely see Robert, Mamma," Kitty interjected. Her enthusiasm for the scheme had dampened somewhat at the thought of lending one of her dresses to Mary, who cared little for clothes and was liable to spill tea down the front or litter the skirt with cake crumbs. "He is often away, or at study."

"Well," Mrs. Bennet sighed, with some disappointment, "well, Mary, we shall see Miss Hart, at least, and you may make something of that."

"Perhaps she will be impressed with your playing," Kitty suggested, giggling, as the three ladies set forth into the world.

Mary had been to the Harts' home only a few times, for she habitually abstained from the morning calls which her mother and sister paid to their Bath friends almost every day. She had therefore only seen the house in the evenings, when Dr. Hart had once or twice invited the Bennets to dine with his family.

Despite her prevailing distaste for anything connected with Bath, Mary could not help but like Hart House. Dr. Hart was a widower, and Rosamond had kept house for her father since the marriage of her elder sister some years before; and whatever defaults Mary might discern in that young lady, she could not deny that Miss Hart managed the little household (the family and two servants) with a sensible, capable hand. The domestic upsets which were a part of everyday life at Longbourn, brought on as they were by Mrs. Bennet's frequent nervous attacks, seemed utterly unknown at Hart House.

Besides this precious household serenity, the house itself was charming. It was smaller than Longbourn, but otherwise could very easily have passed for the home of a gentleman farmer, being simply arranged and comfortable. The windows were large, affording the rooms a great deal of light; the walls were decorated with family portraits and a few drawings by the Hart sisters. There were books everywhere—stacked on tables, set on shelves, arranged attractively on the mantelpiece. Mary had never had a chance to peruse the Harts' library, but she imagined it must be a rather impressive collection, for all of the family members demonstrated a great love of reading. And, of course, the sitting room boasted the prized pianoforte, which—though not nearly so fine an instrument as the one at Pemberley, or even the smaller one at Netherfield—was nonetheless much doted on and cared for by Dr. Hart, who enjoyed music above all things.

It was with some pleasure, therefore, that Mary entered Hart House, and at a smile and a welcoming gesture from Miss Hart, took her seat immediately at the instrument and began looking through the large sheaf of music which her hostess handed to her.

"I hope you may find something there which pleases you, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart said kindly. Mary thanked her; she was already well pleased, having discovered two pieces of Haydn which she had never played before.

"I hope you will remember, my dear, that you are a guest here," Mrs. Bennet instructed, leaning close over her daughter as Rosamond moved to embrace Kitty, "and you cannot play for hours and hours as you are wont to do at home, for I am sure Miss Hart will not want you here all the afternoon; furthermore, take care to play something pleasant, for none of us are in the mood for your dull concertos."

Mary accepted this motherly advice with only a small nod, too engrossed in the Harts' musical collection to pay much mind.

Kitty and Mrs. Bennet took their seats on the settee and accepted the cups of tea which Rosamond offered them. Mrs. Bennet was eager to hear Rosamond discuss the concert she had attended with her family the previous evening—not because Mrs. Bennet was particularly interested in music, for she was not, but because she was an avaricious collector of gossip, and Rosamond, with her wide circle of acquaintance, likely knew more of the city's scandals than Mrs. Bennet could ever hope to find out on her own.

First, of course, Mrs. Bennet was obliged to feign interest in Rosamond's rapturous descriptions of the concert itself; and Mary postponed her playing for a few moments to listen enviously.

"I always enjoy Hummel," Rosamond was saying, "and am rarely disappointed in the concerts at the Assembly Rooms; but it really was particularly marvelous last night. Even Theo enjoyed himself, and he is of a far more critical mind than I am."

"Were there a great many people in the audience?" Mrs. Bennet asked hopefully.  
"Oh, yes; there always are. Bath boasts a great many music-lovers, even when the Season has ended."

"So you must have seen many friends and acquaintances," Mrs. Bennet hinted.

Rosamond, discerning the meaning of Mrs. Bennet's questions, gave a smile. "We sat with the Fitzwilliams and the Finches," she said obligingly, "and saw Mr. Dalton and Miss Seabrook at the interval—oh, and Mr. Price was there, as he often is, but we only spoke for a moment."

It was at this moment that Mary, understanding there would be no more sensible conversation, chose to begin playing. The sudden sound covered up Kitty's elated gasp at the mention of Mr. Price, but could not hide the way she leaned forward, regarding Rosamond with wide eyes.

"Did he seem—was in he good spirits?" she asked eagerly.

"He seemed quite cheerful."

"Was he alone?"

"He was there with a friend, a stranger to me—a gentleman friend," Rosamond added swiftly, at Kitty's look of concern.

"What was the gentleman's name?"  
"I am afraid I have forgotten," Rosamond confessed, "which is terribly impolite of me, for he was very well-mannered and agreeable. I believe my mind was too much taken up with the music to take in anything else! But Mr. Price did send his regards to you, Kitty."

Kitty gave a tiny squeal, and turned exultantly to her mother. Mrs. Bennet's face was wreathed in proud smiles.

"Do you not think Mr. Price the most amiable man in the world, Miss Hart?" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "Kitty thinks you disapprove of him, but I am sure you could not; he is so charming and good-natured!"

Faced, as she was, with two firm, beaming advocates of Mr. Price's charms—one of whom was her elder, and not to be argued with—Miss Hart could only agree that she found him very amiable indeed, despite their only slight acquaintance.

"I am sure I shall marry him," Kitty declared, and at this Rosamond's eyebrows lifted very slightly.

"How certain you sound!" she laughed. "Why, the last time we discussed the subject, you said only that you were very fond of him; and now you are already declaring yourself engaged. Mr. Price is a happy man, to be so successful in his courtship!"

"He is a very happy man," Mrs. Bennet agreed, affectionately tucking one of Kitty's loose curls behind her ear, "and will be forever, for my daughter will make him so. Do you not think it a fine match, Miss Hart?"

Rosamond only smiled, and offered her guests the plate of cakes.

Mrs. Bennet and Kitty had other calls to make that morning, and wanted to visit the shops besides, and so their time at Hart House lasted only a half-hour. Yet Rosamond invited Mary to stay longer if she wished to continue her practice, and Mary seized the opportunity with alacrity.

"I have been out of practice for some weeks, Mamma," she argued, "and cannot be expected to make up so much lost time in only half an hour."

"I have no other plans for the morning—only some letters to write, and it would be very pleasant to listen to music as I do so," Rosamond assured Mrs. Bennet. "It is not often that I have the opportunity of listening, instead of playing, within my own home; I confess I am enjoying it very much."

Mrs. Bennet was initially somewhat hesitant to accept the offer, but privately decided that it would be more convenient to have Mary imposing on the Harts than sitting sullenly in every drawing-room they visited. Besides which, she still entertained some hope that Mary might see Robert while at Hart House, and therefore agreed that Mary could stay for another hour or so, if she was not in anybody's way.

"But you must leave as soon as Miss Hart grows tired of you," she instructed her daughter, not bothering to lower her voice. Mary flushed, and Rosamond, laughing, assured the lady again that it was no trouble. Mrs. Bennet gave Mary a significant look as she bustled down the front steps, and Kitty gave her a wide smile as she followed her mother, and then they were gone and Mary and Miss Hart were standing alone in the vestibule.

"You play well, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart remarked, as they turned to re-enter the sitting room. "Do you indeed practice every day, as you told me before?"

"I do," Mary replied. "I believe it is important for a young lady to have at least one occupation to which she may devote herself entirely, and in which she may work seriously to improve."

"And this is yours?"

"It is. I am always trying to be better." Mary gave Miss Hart a considering glance, and then added, "I heard you once or twice at Pemberley, Miss Hart, and I believe you have a fine talent for the instrument."

"Thank you," Miss Hart agreed, "I believe I do."

At Mary's surprised glance—for she understood it to be typical among fashionable young ladies, when commended for their accomplishments, to blush and dissemble—Rosamond gave a little smile. "I have never seen the point in feigning embarrassment when one truly feels well-deserved satisfaction. I play very well, for, like you, I have devoted many hours to my practice, and I am proud of the fact. There are many things which I do not do well, and ought not to be admired for; but when the compliment is bought with a great deal of work, I see no reason not to accept it. Do you not agree?"

"I do," Mary answered, feeling, of all things, rather pleased. "I despair of the wiles and arts which are frequently employed by young ladies to appear more amiable than they truly are, and I believe an honest examination of one's faults and virtues is necessary for true self-understanding and, therefore, for true self-improvement. Having accepted that you play very well upon the pianoforte, you may now consider those other things which you say you do not do well, and address your faults in those areas."

"It is a strict regimen you keep," Rosamond laughed, "to master one skill, only to move on to the next!"

"But I think it necessary, if one is to be considered truly accomplished."

"I am surprised to hear you speak of accomplishments, Miss Bennet, for it seems to me you should loathe the word."

They had reached the sitting room, and were standing by the pianoforte; but Mary, distracted, made no move to sit down. "Why should you think so?" she asked instead.

"Why, because you are so very concerned with the _self_—with self-understanding, and self-improvement, and self-discipline, and all of the other such terms I have heard you use. 'Accomplished' is a term employed by others; we work toward accomplishments to please and impress the rest of the world. Such a goal, it seems, must be contrary to _your_ goal of self-understanding. Would you not rather say you learn and improve for your own satisfaction, and not that of everybody else?"

Mary, deeply surprised, could think only that Rosamond was far more perceptive than she had previously believed, but she could hardly say such a thing out loud. "Have you learned such ideas from novels?" she demanded instead.

Miss Rosamond only laughed, more loudly than Mary had ever heard her laugh before. "You are very persistent upon that score!"

"I am sorry," Mary said stiffly, realizing belatedly how her question must have sounded, "that was impolite."

"It is no matter.—Come, be seated and improve yourself, Miss Bennet. I enjoyed hearing you play before, and should enjoy it even more now that I am writing instead of talking, and more able to listen."

Miss Bennet was glad to take her seat upon the bench, and place her hands upon the instrument again. It felt somewhat like coming home, and she rested there for a moment, taking pleasure in the cool keys beneath her fingers, before she began to follow the piece of Haydn she had set upon the ledge. Miss Hart retrieved some writing-paper and a quill from a well-used writing desk and sat down to take care of her correspondence. Stillness prevailed for some time, broken of course by Mary's practice—and it was indeed practice, complete with misstruck notes and frequent stops and starts—but the atmosphere was nonetheless peaceful and surprisingly comfortable.

Mary was happy not only for the opportunity to practice, but for the opportunity to practice without listening to Kitty's complaints about the dullness of her selection, or Mrs. Bennet's complaints about the effect of the noise upon her delicate nerves, or even Mr. Bennet's decisive requests for silence in his household. Rosamond was an appreciative listener, glancing up now and then to watch Mary work her way through a difficult passage, and smiling at the more fluent sections, but making no move to speak or interrupt. Mary supposed Rosamond, as a fellow musician, must know well the annoyances of having some person attempt to talk at one over one's playing.

At length, however, Mary began to feel an ache in her hands and wrists, which she attributed to being so long out of practice; and she lifted her fingers from the keys with some regret.

"Are you satisfied with your work for today, Miss Bennet?" Miss Hart asked, seeing Mary halt.

"I am not entirely, no; but my hands are aching, for they have not been so well-used in over a fortnight, and I should not like to strain myself."

"That is sensible. I thought you sounded very well—the last sonata, in particular, was quite pretty." Rosamond rose from the writing-desk and took the arm-chair closest to the pianoforte.

"Was it not?" Mary said, with a rush of warmth, for she rarely had the opportunity to discuss music with someone who appreciated it as she did (even if she did suspect her own appreciation to be somewhat more serious than Miss Hart's). "It is one of my favorites; I have practiced it a great deal at home."

"I am glad to find another who loves Haydn as I do. My father claims that his symphonies and string pieces are more rather satisfying than his works for the pianoforte, but I confess I have always loved the sonatas quite as much."

"Have you any Scarlatti?" Mary asked keenly. "I have attempted to teach myself as many of his sonatas as I can, for of course many of them are for organs or other instruments, but I have not been able to find all of them."

"That is a great undertaking!" Rosamond exclaimed, laughing. "I have several; you are welcome to look at them the next time you come, and see if they are any of the ones you have missed."

Mary expressed pleasure at the prospect, more readily than she had expressed pleasure at any other thing she had done in Bath; but at that moment they were interrupted, as the door opened and Robert came in. He started upon finding Mary at the pianoforte, but recovered with an amiable smile and a bow.

"Miss Bennet," he greeted her, "I see you have accepted our offer at last. I was beginning to think you did not care so much for your playing as you claimed."

"On the contrary, I had no wish to impose on your hospitality," Mary hastened to assure him, but a slight quirk of the gentleman's lips hinted to her that he was teasing, and she fell silent. She could not help but feel slightly awkward around Robert Hart, ever since Kitty had made her foolish insinuations some days ago. However, she was satisfied to note that her heart had not leapt or even warmed as he walked in, and she felt no desire to embrace him or otherwise express overt familiarity and romantic affection. She regarded him quite objectively, as one might regard any other friend.

"How is Mrs. Bellefore?" Rosamond questioned, turning in her seat to face her brother. Robert gave a small groan, and sank onto the settee with every appearance of thankfulness for its support.

"She is the healthiest woman in the world, as I knew she would be, though of course she is convinced otherwise."

"She is not dying of consumption, then?"

"Certainly not; I found her striding about her bedroom, color in her cheeks and strength in her voice, having finished a large breakfast only moments before, and of course she devoted all of her vigor to telling me how very ill she was. I am beginning to think our father sends me on such calls for his own amusement."

"That is quite likely; but it may be educational, if you do intend to take on Papa's practice. Bath is a city of hypochondriacs, after all—that is what it was built for."

"Indeed. I am sure Father spends more time soothing healthy people who believe themselves unwell than he does treating actual illnesses—and that may well be my own fate."

"You will have to develop a more gentle manner, in that case, for as it is you are very brusque and prone to sarcasm, which is not at all good for tending to the anxious," Rosamond remarked matter-of-factly.

"Thank you for your criticism, my dear sister; you are eminently helpful, as always."

"That is a fine example of what I mean."

"Now you are annoying me."

"_And_ you are impatient," his dear sister added. "So far, I am afraid to say, I am not seeing in you a particularly promising physician."

Robert responded to this by aiming a very light kick to the leg of the chair in which Rosamond was seated.

"Pray do not do that when you are wearing your boots," Rosamond said placidly, "or you will dirty the cushions, and I will have your head if you do."

Robert gave a snort of amusement, as his eyes fell on Mary again. "Excuse us, Miss Bennet," he apologized, "you cannot find any of this particularly interesting—this discussion of patients and illnesses, or the lack thereof."

"On the contrary," Mary replied, "I am wondering if you might come and treat my mother; she suffers from a nervous complaint which I am almost certain is imaginary."

Robert stared, then laughed. Rosamond, too, was laughing, and in spite of herself, Mary flushed for having made them both do so. She felt almost included in the twins' genial intimacy, and to her surprise, the thought pleased her more than she imagined it strictly should. Giving a glance to the clock on the mantelpiece, she rose to take her leave, for the hour which Mrs. Bennet had allotted her had passed.

"Are you going, Miss Bennet?" Robert asked, standing as she did.

"I am afraid I must."

"Well, wait a moment and I will walk with you—I told Juliet I would take her to Sally Lunn's for a Bath-bun, in exchange for her bringing me a book I wanted."

"I have brought you a thousand books you wanted over the course of our lives, and you have never once bought me a Bath-bun," Rosamond complained, with only mild indignation, as she too rose and smoothed her skirts.

"Perhaps not; but I will make reparations by posting those letters for you, if they are ready to be sent." Robert nodded at the writing-desk. Rosamond collected the bundle of letters and handed them to her brother, before leaving the room to summon little Juliet.

"Well, Miss Bennet, I hope you are satisfied with your practice this morning," Robert remarked, glancing idly through his sister's letters as they walked into the vestibule.

"I am, indeed; I was pleased to find that your collection contains many pieces which are quite unknown to me, and I look forward to attempting them. "

"I am glad to hear it. Did Rose talk at all about the concert we attended?"

"A little," Mary answered, rather disdainfully. "My mother was not so interested in the music as she was in the people, and so there were only a few words said about the quality of the performance."

"Do your mother and sister plan to attend any concerts?"

"I am sure they do not. Neither of them possesses any degree of interest or expertise when it comes to musical performance."

"Yet they should attend; even if they care nothing for the music, there are always a great many ladies and gentlemen present, and they might watch the crowd to their hearts' content while you enjoy the performance."

"That is an argument which may indeed convince my mother," Mary conceded wryly, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders once again, "although Kitty would be disappointed that she could not talk over the music, and she would certainly attempt it anyway. Perhaps it is better for everybody if I resign myself to second-hand accounts from you and your sister."

"Nay, Miss Bennet," Robert answered, giving a little laugh, "you must not give up so easily. If your family is not conducive to an appreciation of the musical arts, you are more than welcome to join mine."

He seemed to notice what he had said only after he said it, for he turned rather red, and added hastily, "At-at a concert, I mean. My father has several seats for a recital of Gluck and Salieri this week; I am sure Rose means to invite you when she comes downstairs."

"That is very kind," Mary answered, blushing in spite of herself, "but—"

She was unable to complete her sentence, for the two Miss Harts came down the stairs at that moment, Juliet looking very pretty in a new bonnet. "I am glad you came to play for us today, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart declared, giving her a curtsy, "but do not forget our bargain; I have passed over it this time, but next time I shall want to know what you think of _The Italian_."

"I shall prepare myself as best I can," Mary promised, though she had not yet opened the book. Miss Hart smiled.

"There is a concert at the Assembly Rooms on Wednesday which I think you would very much enjoy; should you and your family like to attend?" she asked. "My father has several seats." Robert gave Mary a swift glance.

"Thank you," Mary said. "I will mention your invitation to my mother; I am sure she and my sister would be delighted."

"Even if they are not, you are more than welcome to join us," Rosamond said easily. "Good-bye, then, and remember to acquaint yourself with Mrs. Radcliffe, or I shall hide all of the Haydn and Scarlatti next time and you shall be forced to content yourself with practicing the scales. Are you sun-burned, Robert? Your face is quite red.—Well, good-bye!"

With a few more words of farewell among the Hart siblings, Mary and her escorts set off from the comfortable home, and headed toward the center of the city once again.

* * *

Robert recovered from his momentary awkwardness once they reached the open air, and questioned Mary most politely on her activities in Bath since she had seen him last—a topic which was quickly exhausted, for Mary had done very little besides visiting the book-shop, and Robert had already heard an account of that event from his sisters.

"And before you ask, Mr. Hart, I still have no love for Bath," Mary added, although her tone was less cold than it had been in earlier conversations.

"You may not believe me, Miss Bennet, but my patience with the place is quickly growing thin," the gentleman replied.

"Why! How can you speak so, Robert?" Miss Juliet demanded, with an air of reproach. "Do not tell me you are going to be like Helena, and run off and leave us all behind; I like it best when all of the family is close together."

"That is only because you have never known it any other way," Robert said teasingly. "I imagine you should discover a great many advantages in having Theo and Anne halfway across the world—it would be much more peaceful, for one thing."

"But I should miss Anne very much," Juliet avowed, and her brother laughed.

"Are you thinking of leaving Bath, Mr. Hart?" Mary asked, rather keenly.

"Oh, as to that, I could not say," Robert replied.

There was a pause. Juliet was engaged in admiring a late-blooming rose bush hanging over the paving stones, and Mary was considering how to further the conversation without appearing very forward. Fortunately, she was saved the effort, for Robert declared suddenly,

"But it is provoking!"

"I beg your pardon?" There was a tone of vexation in Robert's voice which she had not heard before; indeed, she had never heard him speak with anything but perfect mildness.

"Forgive me, Miss Bennet; I suppose my difficult morning may cause me to speak with greater warmth than I ought. It is only—" He hesitated. "I have spent a great deal of time earning my medical training. I was apprenticed to my father at the age of fourteen; I have been reading, and studying, and working in my father's practice, since I can remember. And to have all this training wasted upon cases of imagined consumption, or imagined gout, or a thousand other imagined diseases—to foresee a lifetime of prescribing rest and perhaps a visit to the Baths, to those who have no real need of either but desire a treatment for every nervous flutter or feigned swooning fit—it is not to be contemplated."

He fell silent, frowning. Mary, too, was silent, somewhat struck by the honest displeasure the gentleman expressed.

"Would you rather that they were truly ill?" she asked at last. "That is wholly uncharitable, though I do not entirely think it is what you meant."

"Certainly not! I only meant—this is not why I became interested in medicine." His voice softened and he gave a slight nod toward his sister, who was walking ahead. "My own mother passed away when I was young; Juliet scarcely had an opportunity to know her, and has grown up quite motherless. She has been fortunate, for Helena and Rose have always been very devoted to her, but I believe she still feels the loss. It is a common occurence, but that does not mean it is not sad. I remember thinking, as a child, that I should like to prevent its happening to anybody else."

"That is a noble ideal," Mary said.

"And an impossible one; there will always be death, and there will always be children without mothers. But it is something to strive for, nonetheless, and it is painful to imagine such a high purpose for oneself, only to be confronted with the reality: wealthy ladies and gentlemen who have paid to be told that there is something wrong with them."

"Your characterization of your patients seems somewhat unfair," Mary said, "though I can understand your meaning. It is entirely likely, as you suggest, that you are speaking more unpleasantly than you would if you had not just attended to a particularly irritating case. However, I imagine you ought to take comfort in the fact that you are obliged to do so little, however dull it may seem. Busy physicians are never a promising symbol of a society's health."

"It is only in Bath that I am obliged to do so little," Robert replied tensely. "This is a city of hypochondriacs, as Rose says, but there is a great deal of disease in the world."

"Lord, Robert," Juliet sighed, rejoining them; she had grown tired of their slow progress and returned, impatiently, to hasten them along. "Must you speak so seriously on such a fine afternoon?"

Her brother apologized, and Juliet changed the subject to something more cheerful. Mary spoke little for the remainder of the walk.

The party reached Sally Lunn's without further incident, and Mary, politely resisting Robert and Juliet's invitations to join them for tea and a bun, made her way to Henry Street. She found the house quite deserted, for Kitty and Mrs. Bennet had not yet returned from the shops; far from being disappointed, however, Mary was glad of the quiet, for it allowed her ample time for reflection.

It was rare that Mary was the sharer of somebody's confidence. Jane and Elizabeth had forever fulfilled that role for one another, as had Kitty and Lydia, and while Lydia's marriage had removed her from the family circle, Kitty still tended to confide in Maria Lucas, or Jane, or even Mrs. Bennet, before turning to Mary. There were no young ladies in Meryton to whom Mary felt particularly attached—only a few whom she had known most of her life, and with whom she was therefore easier than with others. She had certainly never counted a gentleman among her close acquaintances.

Her conversation with Robert Hart was therefore, in some small way, gratifying to Mary, despite the plain unhappiness which Robert had expressed. It was thrilling, she realized, to be confided in—to be spoken to honestly, without the veneer of decorum or pleasantness to dilute the thoughts and ideas and emotions being discussed. She wished the exchange had not been interrupted; she wished she had been able to offer him more advice, to say something which would have proven her entirely worthy of his confidence.

Despite the brevity of the interaction, however, Mary was satisfied. Not only had Robert definitively demonstrated the seriousness and nobleness of his mind—he had also demonstrated that he considered Mary a friend, which was something very few people had ever done before.

Mary allowed herself a small smile, glad Kitty was not there to see it; for she would have made such a fuss, and declared that Mary had found her true love, when really Mary was certain she had found something much more valuable. Her eyes rested on the small bound volume that sat, patiently, on the little writing-desk in the parlor: _The Italian, or The Confessional of the Black Penitents_. Picking it up, Mary settled comfortably into a chair near the window, and began to read.

Her last thought, before she was dragged into the tale of Ellena and Vincentio, was that she would certainly attend Wednesday's concert with the Harts, whether her family joined them or no.

Mrs. Bennet and Kitty had enjoyed a profitable morning, and returned to the house in good spirits and laden down with gossip and packages; and when Mary, roused from her book by the inevitable flurry and noise which heralded the arrival of her mother and sister, repeated the Harts' invitation, Mrs. Bennet was positively overjoyed.

"How very kind! How very cordial!" she exclaimed, fluttering her hands excitedly. "There, you see, Mary? This is surely a compliment to you! I did tell you to secure Miss Hart's good opinion, and now you have done so; and I am sure this is only the first of many invitations to come! I may see you married before the winter!"

"We have received invitations from the Harts ever since we have been in Bath, Mamma," Mary pointed out, "and you surely cannot attribute all of those to my influence. It is far more likely that Kitty's friendship with Miss Hart is the cause of such overtures."

Mrs. Bennet waved an impatient hand. "I shall write directly and accept the invitation; and then, Mary, we must find something for you to wear, for I am sure you have nothing suitable."

Her daughter opened her mouth to object, but Kitty interrupted. "Do you think Mr. Price will be there, Mamma? I long to see him again!"

"Did not Miss Hart say he is often at the Assembly Rooms? I am sure he would not miss an opportunity of seeing you, my love."

"He does not even know she will be there," Mary interjected crossly, but nobody was listening.

"La! Then I shall wear my green crape frock with the white trim, for I have not worn it yet and it is very striking. Do you think it should look best with my white ribbon or my pearls—or perhaps my new cameo pin? And what am I to do with my hair, Mamma?"

"We shall think of something," her mother assured her.

"You ought to concern yourself less with the adornment of your person, and more with the improvement of your mind," Mary intoned. "If Mr. Price is a sensible gentleman—a fact of which I am not yet convinced—he will care little for clothes, but will place great stock in the intellect and opinions of the woman whom he chooses to marry."

"Oh, Lord," Kitty sighed, though the smile never left her face, "how naïve you are, Mary."

"Indeed, Mary," Mrs. Bennet agreed, "do you think Mr. Wickham cared at all for Lydia's intellect and opinions? And _she_ was the first of you all to be married, and at only sixteen! Now come, child, we must look at what clothes you have brought with you, and see what is to be done."

She bustled Mary out of the room and up the stairs.

Kitty, left alone in the parlor, fell deliriously into a chair. She could not help wishing that her mother had not compared Mr. Price to Mr. Wickham, for she had grown to suspect that Lydia's marriage was not entirely what it should have been; but she could not care for that now, when she was faced with the prospect of meeting again that certain gentleman who held sway over her heart and mind—she wondered if this was how Jane had felt about Mr. Bingley, or Lizzie about Mr. Darcy. But no, she decided, for they were both too serious to know how to be in love; they had no sense of romance.

It was a pity, she reflected, that this scene of great meeting was to take place at something so dull as a concert—and an indoor concert, too, where they could not walk about as they had done at Sydney Gardens. But she was certain she could bear any amount of dullness, if it meant a few minutes with dear Mr. Price.

* * *

Wednesday came very quickly, for all three of the Bennet ladies were eager for its arrival: Mary because she delighted in the prospect of attending a real Bath concert, Kitty because her heart danced every time her thoughts drifted to Mr. Price, and Mrs. Bennet because she looked forward, with great satisfaction, to witnessing the confirmation of all her fondest hopes—that is, that her last two daughters would finally marry. For Mary to secure an evening with Mr. Hart was encouraging; for Kitty to spend the same evening with Mr. Price was even more so. And this was not like a ball, where they could only dance twice and, between one thing and another, would perhaps only converse for a few minutes; this was an entire, almost uninterrupted evening, and Mrs. Bennet could not be more delighted.

The Assembly Rooms were bustling when they arrived on Wednesday evening. Bath was, as Rosamond had assured them, a city filled with music-lovers, and the bright vestibule was humming with the sounds of chatter and conversation. Kitty thrilled at the sight of so many fashionable ladies and gentlemen, and searched the crowd eagerly for Mr. Price. She was disappointed when she did not spot him immediately; but, she reflected, the hour was early yet.

The Hart family was standing near the windows, joined by Mr. Finch. The Bennets met their friends with a great deal of eagerness—even Mary could scarce hide her enthusiasm for the evening's entertainment.

"You were so kind to invite us, Dr. Hart," Mrs. Bennet fawned, as the gentleman bowed to her and offered her a polite arm.

"Do not say so just yet, Mrs. Bennet," Theodore Hart warned her, his eyes twinkling; "the concert may be very poor indeed, and then you will not want to thank my father."

"Oh, Mr. Hart, I am sure it will not be so," Mrs. Bennet cried. "I am sure there is no such thing as a poor concert—not in Bath!"

"My husband is apt to be rather critical," Anne Hart said, smiling at Mrs. Bennet, "though," she added, turning to Theo, "I am not sure you have any right to be; _you_ are no musician."

"I suppose your point, my love, is that it is easy to criticize what one cannot do oneself, and I confess I agree with you. The only opinion which matters, then, is that of our Rose, who has played and sung all her life."

"And done so very skillfully," Dr. Hart interjected, with an affectionate glance at his daughter. Miss Hart accepted the compliment with a smile and a pretty "Thank you, Papa," but added,

"That is not so anymore, Theo—I am not the only expert in our party. Dear Miss Bennet plays and sings beautifully. I have heard her myself, and am quite envious of her proficiency and discipline."

Mary blushed, for the eyes of the party were suddenly all upon her, and tried to think of something very wise and clever to say. But she was preceded by Kitty, who unexpectedly exclaimed,

"Discipline is a very good word, Rosamond, for Mary practices every day for hours upon hours, and is never satisfied until she can play perfectly. She is that way in every endeavor she takes up," Kitty went on, glancing demurely at Robert Hart. "She desires to do every thing perfectly. I am sure she could make any sensible man very happy, for she is so very accomplished and interesting!"

"Kitty!" Mary hissed, her face now very red. Robert looked, of all things, rather amused. Mary wondered whether he realized that this was all for his benefit; she dearly hoped not.

"Oh, indeed, there is no one in the family so accomplished as our Mary," Mrs. Bennet chimed in breezily. "She plays, and sings, and reads so many books—we are all very proud of her!"

"Thank you, Mamma," Mary mumbled. She bowed her head in embarrassment, and hoped she merely appeared modest.

Fortunately, it was at this moment that the doors to the Octagon Room opened. The subject of Mary's accomplishments was dropped as the party joined the general movement into the concert space, and Mrs. Bennet and Kitty occupied themselves with finding seats which would offer the best view of the surrounding audience members.

"I am glad you were able to join us tonight, Miss Bennet," Robert Hart said, as he took the chair beside Mary. (Mrs. Bennet, looking on, beamed at them.) "I shall be eager to know what you think of the performance."

"I am afraid Miss Hart has overestimated my expertise," Mary replied. "I have never been to a concert before, and I may not know entirely whether it is good or bad."

"Is that not an easy problem? If the music is pleasing to the ear, it is good; if not, it is bad."

"That is a simplified view of the issue," Mary answered warmly, turning to face him. "One must take into account other aspects besides the purely aesthetic. We must consider technique, skill, interpretation and other such matters. As a physician, Mr. Hart, you would not claim that everything which tastes good is physically beneficial; and it is the same with music. The more difficult passages are often the most technically important."

"Then you are not here to enjoy yourself—you are here to be improved."

"Improvement is always my first concern in any activity; but I did not say I would not enjoy myself. To attend a Bath concert in the company of friends is certainly an experience which any person must find agreeable."

Robert smiled at her, and Mary found herself smiling back.

Kitty had wanted to sit with Rosamond, but her friend had been pulled into the row ahead by Mrs. Hart, and so she found herself seated behind Mary, with Mr. Finch to her right and an empty seat to her left. There was very little conversation to be had here; Mr. Finch had made a few remarks on the pleasantness of the weather, to which Kitty had responded readily, but had soon lapsed into an awkward silence. Kitty, an envious observer of Mary's easy conversation with Robert Hart, heaved a small sigh—until—

"Your sister appears to have made a friend."

Kitty jumped, but recognized the voice and turned elatedly to regard Mr. Price, who was standing above her. He bowed. "I apologize for startling you, Miss Bennet, but I saw you sitting here and could not resist coming to speak with you. Is this seat unclaimed?"

"Oh, to be sure," Kitty replied, beaming; "Will you sit with us?"

"I would be delighted," the gentleman affirmed, dropping into the chair with easy grace. "How do you do, Finch?"

Mr. Finch gave Mr. Price an uncomfortable nod, of which Kitty took no notice, for she had immediately begun chastising her friend: "I have not seen you once since the Wolfes' ball, Mr. Price, though I have been all over Bath and seen everybody else. Where have you been?"

"I was called to London for a few days," he replied smoothly.

"Oh!" Kitty's teasing resentment was immediately supplanted by eagerness. "And what did you do there? Were there any balls—any parties?"

"One or two," he said carelessly. "However, I was primarily there on a matter of business.—But look how charmingly your sister smiles at her friend! Did you not tell me she was very disagreeable with most gentlemen?"

"Mr. Hart is exceedingly kind to my sister," Kitty said cheerfully, though she was careful to keep her voice low enough that the pair in question would not overhear. "They are forever having very serious conversations, which is just what Mary likes."

"That sounds like a dull sort of intimacy," Mr. Price remarked. "I am sure _you_ would not settle for such a courtship."

Kitty blushed. "Well, but Mary is a dull sort of person," she confided, "and Rose tells me Robert is much the same way."

"Imagine the dreary marriage which must eventually ensue! They will read books and discuss theories for the rest of their days."

This Kitty found rather hard, for Mary was her sister, after all, and she did truly like Robert Hart, despite his tendency to smile rather than laugh; but she was saved the necessity of negotiating a response by the sound of applause, as the evening's performers took to the small stage and bowed solemnly. Any conversation was rendered quite impossible, and Kitty settled back into her seat with a little sigh, for this was the part of the evening which she did not anticipate with any pleasure.

The musicians, however, were very skillful; and while there was no more flirtation to be had while they played, Kitty found the melodies rather pretty and even thought one or two of the faster ones might be suitable for dancing. She amused herself, for a time, by imagining the sort of steps which must accompany such tunes. When that grew dull, she cast her eyes about the audience. Mr. Finch, to her left, was watching the stage earnestly; Mr. Price, to her right, was leaning back in his seat with an expression of slight boredom. Rosamond, a few seats down from her in the aisle ahead, was regarding the performers with attentive pleasure. Dr. Hart was tapping his foot, every so slightly, to the music. Mrs. Bennet was looking about the room, just like Kitty—their eyes met, and Mrs. Bennet, catching sight of Mr. Price, favored her daughter with an approving beam. Kitty could not see Mary's face, for her sister was seated directly in front of her, but she imagined it must bear an expression of rapture. She hoped Mary would not let her mouth hang open, as she was wont to do when surprised or pleased; Robert Hart would certainly not find such a sight attractive.

Before very long, however, Kitty ran out of faces to study, and she settled back into her seat with another little sigh, resigning herself to an eternal age of boredom.

The first half of the concert ended far too soon, as far as Mary was concerned. The musicians rose and the audience applauded, and Mary's heart pounded happily in her breast. Certainly, she had an ear untrained to orchestral music—her only experience was with pieces written for the pianoforte—but she had certainly enjoyed the music, and had been unable to discern any grave errors on the part of the performers. She turned to Robert Hart, and he, catching sight of her, gave a little laugh.

"I do not think I have ever seen you look so happy, Miss Bennet," he said.

Mary realized that her mouth was hanging open, and shut it hurriedly. The other members of the audience were rising to their feet, intent upon stretching their legs for a few minutes before the second half of the performance would begin. Robert rose, and offered her an arm.

"Shall we walk?"

"It is a good match," Mr. Price observed, his eyes again upon Mary and Robert. He had offered his own arm to Kitty, who had taken it blissfully, oblivious to the identical, but quieter, invitation which Mr. Finch had extended her only a moment before. "One would not expect the sister of a Mrs. Darcy to be content with a physician's son; but, after all, there is an excellent fortune there. Thomas Hart is only a physician, but he is a successful one, and I understand he has provided very well for his children."

"I am sure that is the case," Kitty replied, a little discomfited by the mercenary turn of the conversation. "And," she added, brightening, "one cannot make marriages wholly upon the basis of class and fortune; Mrs. Theodore Hart was the heiress of Rosings Park, you know, but she gave it all up for love of her husband. Is that not the most romantic thing you ever heard?"

"Very nearly," Mr. Price agreed, smiling at her. "I am glad to hear, Miss Bennet, that you are one of those rare females who prizes love and passion above fortune and connexions. I have always known myself incapable of marrying a woman who prizes material comfort over loftier pursuits."

Kitty blushed. "I do not think it is entirely proper for you to speak to me of marriage, sir," she said demurely, toying with her fan.

"Ah! And the rules of propriety must be strictly attended to," Mr. Price declared, with mock seriousness. "If those rules were broken, I might carry out some rash act—I might tell you how very lovely you look in that green crape, for example, or how charmingly that string of pearls sits upon your throat; or I might say to you that you are the prettiest and most enchanting young lady I have ever met, and I should very much like to see more of you."

Kitty's heart was beating so loudly she was sure it could be heard even over the hum of the room. "I think you are being very forward," she answered, but her eyes were dancing.

"Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I should hate to appear uncouth. Let us instead discuss the weather, or the concert, or some other neutral topic."

"I did not say your compliments were unwelcome," Kitty interjected, feeling very saucy indeed. "A young lady always likes to hear herself complimented. You must know that, Mr. Price, for I am sure you spend all of your time among the charming ladies of London."

"Their charms are nothing to yours, my dear Miss Bennet," Mr. Price assured her, smiling. "They are, all of them, such young ladies as could only be improved by your society and influence."

"I should dearly love to go to Town," Kitty sighed.

"Indeed, you should enjoy yourself there; and I am sure you would be a particular favorite of all the city before the end of a fortnight."

Kitty laughed. "No indeed, for I have been in Bath for nearly _three_ weeks now, and I am hardly a favorite of anybody's—and Bath is only half the size of London!"

Her estimation of Bath's population was, perhaps, somewhat inaccurate; but her meaning was not lost on Mr. Price.

"That is a phenomenon which can only be attributed to a general blindness on the part of the citizenry here," he declared graciously. "London, now—London is a city which prizes beauty, and wit, and amiability, above all things; a young lady such as yourself, who possesses all those qualities in excessive amounts, should never go unnoticed in London."

His gaze was solemn but agreeable, and Kitty felt as though she could swoon. She did not, however; instead, she glanced away coyly, and her eyes fell upon Mr. Finch and Rosamond, who had joined Robert and Mary in their walk about the room.

"La, are they not a very fine couple?" she said, for lack of anything else to say. She was not an artful young lady, and knew only very little of how to accept a gentleman's compliments, and so she elected to change the subject. "I am sure the Harts will be celebrating two weddings this autumn!"

"Miss Hart is certainly very fine," Mr. Price agreed, peering at her, "but I can have no opinion of Finch's looks; I can only say that he has always struck me as a very dull, stupid sort of fellow, and I am sure Miss Hart has no intention of marrying him."  
"Why! How can you say so?" Kitty cried. "Whenever we are all in an assembly, he is always beside her; and she is the only young lady in the world to whom he ever addresses himself directly, except for his cousin."

"That is proof of devotion on _his_ side," Mr. Price allowed, "and it is not difficult to understand, for he is a man and she is lovely." (Kitty could not help frowning a little at this small admiration.) "But I have been reliably informed that there is a certain gentleman of excellent fortune and excellent family who has spent a great deal of time in Bath of late, with rather suspect excuses. Miss Hart is no fool; she knows her beauty and her charm, and she should certainly never settle for a parsonage, when there is a country estate and a house in Town at her fingertips."

"You are quite wrong," Kitty exclaimed, feeling all the insult of which her friend, fortunately, was ignorant. "Rose is a reader of novels, and as such she could not marry for money. Her feelings would prevent it."

"She is also the daughter of a physician, who has spent her life watching her father tend to families far wealthier and more important than her own, and undoubtedly feels all the inferiority of her condition. Do you think she would not seize rank and fortune when it is offered to her?" He was smiling at her, but Kitty found she could not return it.

"No indeed," she said firmly. "I am sure you would not speak so if you knew her better."

Yet this reminded her very much of something she had once said to Rosamond herself, on the subject of Mr. Price; and she returned to her seat feeling rather confused and dissatisfied.

It was therefore fortunate for Mr. Price that the second set of music began with a grand, sweeping concerto—a very romantic air, which brought to Kitty's mind images of young lovers embracing beneath willow-trees and dancing on moonlit terraces. The argument regarding Rosamond was swiftly forgotten as the music drew forth only the happier parts of their conversation: his compliments to her, half-gallant and half-wicked, and her own responses, which she was certain had been quite as flirtatious as she hoped, while not extending beyond the realm of propriety. Whatever his opinion of her friend, Mr. Price was undoubtedly a gentleman of fine wit and fine manners, and she really could think of no reason why she should not marry him.


	7. Chapter 7

Mr. Price called the next day, to Kitty's vast delight, and was shown into the sitting-room with all due ceremony.

"Dear Mr. Price!" Mrs. Bennet thrilled, curtsying very low. "How very welcome you are—how much we have longed to see you! Do be seated, and I will ring for tea."

The gentleman was pleased to do as he was bidden, and took a seat at Kitty's side.

"How did you like the concert last night, Mr. Price?" Mrs. Bennet asked, beaming at him.

"Oh, it was most enjoyable," Mr. Price replied. "One goes to a Bath concert, you know, not so much for the music as for the people; and there were a great many people there to see and speak to."

Mary, who had been engrossed in _The Italian_, raised indignant eyes at these words. She was on the verge of delivering a strong rebuke; but her only slight acquaintance with the gentleman, and Mrs. Bennet's warning glare, prevented her from doing so.

"We were there with a very merry party," Mrs. Bennet said. "I understand you are acquainted with Dr. Hart and his family."

"I do not know the doctor so well; but his sons and I have a few friends in common, and I have met Miss Hart in company."

Kitty endeavored to steer the conversation in another direction. "Mr. Price has just come from London, Mamma—he was telling me of it only yesterday."

"Indeed! And what did you do there, sir?"

Mr. Price smiled. "As I told Miss Katherine, I had a matter of business to attend to; but of course she would not be satisfied with such an answer, as I am sure you shall not, madam. And so I will add that I went to two balls, and several parties, and dined out every night of the week."

"How delightful!"

"Indeed it was. I have a great partiality for delight and amusement; I should spend every evening at a card-table, and every night in a ballroom, if it were possible. It is only with great reluctance that I face the everyday work of life."

"I understand precisely what you mean, Mr. Price," Mrs. Bennet agreed. "Would we could spend every day in the pursuit of pleasure!"

"That would be a great waste of time," Mary interjected, no longer able to hold her peace. "Pleasure accomplishes nothing. The 'everyday work of life,' as you call it, Mr. Price, is indeed the _substance_ of life; everything else is unnecessary, and ought to be minimized."

"Oh, do hush, Mary," Kitty said crossly. Mr. Price, however, did not appear offended.

"I can see very well why Robert Hart likes you," he said, his lips quirked in amusement. Mary flushed very red, in vexation and embarrassment, and lowered her head to her book again.

Robert Hart, however promising a subject, was not what Mrs. Bennet wanted to discuss at the moment. "Our Mary is of a very serious temperament, Mr. Price," she said, with less bitterness than usual, for her heart had been softened toward her elder daughter in recent days. "But Kitty, I think, is very much of your mind—are you not, my love?"

"Oh, very much," Kitty agreed readily. "I am sure I prefer dancing and dining out to anything else. I should never be content to sit at home every night, as _some_ prefer."

She turned her eyes toward Mary at this last, but her sister affected deafness, and turned another page of her book. Mr. Price smiled at her.

"Then I shall look for you in every ballroom and at every supper-table in Bath, so that we may always enjoy ourselves together."

This was said very gallantly, and Mr. Price—his eyes so blue—looked very handsome in the sunlit sitting-room. Kitty could not help blushing charmingly, and giving him her prettiest smile; and Mrs. Bennet, feeling the great compliment paid to her daughter, beamed and fawned over Mr. Price until the tea was brought in.

Conversation was for a short time halted as the party sipped tea and ate cake and bread; but eventually it must start up again, and Mr. Price's eyes fell on Mary.

"What do you read so closely, Miss Bennet?" he asked genially.

Mary looked up, faintly irritated. "A novel, Mr. Price: _The Italian_, by Mrs. Radcliffe."

"Ah! You are a reader of novels, then?"

"Not generally," Mary replied, impatiently. "I most often restrict my reading to matters of morality and philosophy." ("Lord!" Kitty sighed.) "But Miss Hart has recommended this novel to me, and I am reading it to oblige her."

"A fine friend you are," Mr. Price said teasingly. "I am sure she will be very obliged."

"Do you read, Mr. Price?" Mrs. Bennet asked. The gentleman laughed.

"Certainly not! I have not the patience for it; no, not even for novels. There seems to me something very dull in sitting down for hours for a time, reading the stories and adventures of other people while having none myself. It is the same, for me, with writing letters—why must I devote my time to detailing the events of my life, instead of living it? My temperament is one that requires frequent action, rather than reflection."

"I am the very same," Kitty said warmly. "Often I find myself so busy with other things that I quite forget to write to my sisters, though I always promise them so faithfully! And I daresay I have not written to Maria Lucas once since we have been in Bath, and I told her I would."

"Then you ought to do so immediately," Mary interrupted sternly. Kitty ignored her, and Mrs. Bennet gave her a scolding tap on the arm.

"But novels, you know, I _do_ like; for sometimes it is nice to consider the life of somebody else. I cannot read very faithfully, as Mary does, but I find nothing so bad in sitting down quietly for a few minutes, and imagining oneself in a different place and situation."

"You have the patience which I lack," Mr. Price acknowledged, smiling at her. "It is much to your credit."

"Kitty has the sweetest, most patient disposition one can imagine," Mrs. Bennet interposed. "She has a taste for every amusement, and is scarce to be found unoccupied."

"You ought to go to London. There, you should find enough amusements to fill all your hours."

"Ah, sir, if only we could! But my husband, who remains in Hertfordshire, has no taste for life in Town, and will not take the girls, or allow us to go without him."

"Could you not go with Mrs. Darcy or Mrs. Bingley?" the gentleman asked keenly. "I understand those families keep very fine houses in Town."

"I am always hopeful that an invitation is forthcoming," Mrs. Bennet replied modestly. "But we have had none yet."

"That is a shame.—One would hope that well-married ladies might be inclined to do something of the sort for their younger sisters."

"Oh, Lizzie and Jane have been very good to us!" Kitty cried, laughing. "You speak as if we have been neglected, when it is not at all so. We are forever visiting Netherfield, and have spent many very pleasant months at Pemberley."

"But Mr. Price means, my dear, that more could be offered than short visits," Mrs. Bennet said, "and I am sure I agree. Indeed, I had every hope of your acquaintance widening substantially when Lizzie and Jane were married."

"It has," Kitty replied, her brow wrinkling. "We are now acquainted with Miss Darcy, and with Miss Bingley and the Hursts; and we have met the Fitzwilliams and the Harts at Pemberley, and through them a great many other families."

Mrs. Bennet wanted to say that she had hoped for acquaintance of a greater sort—for indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam was only the second son of an earl, and Dr. Hart was only a physician—but she was too delicate to speak so unkindly in front of Mr. Price, and furthermore had no wish to disparage the family of Mary's beau, so relieved was she that such a beau had been found at all. And so she only gave an indifferent "Hmm," and turned away.

"It must be a credit to you, ma'am," Mr. Price said, changing the subject slightly, "that your two eldest have married so well."

If Mrs. Bennet had not already been charmed by Mr. Price, this would have charmed her, for indeed she did consider herself almost entirely responsible for the fortunate marriages of Jane and Lizzie. Without her art and contrivance, she believed, the gentlemen might have entirely overlooked her daughters—and even if Jane's beauty had initially recommended her to Bingley's attention, the girl herself was too shy to impose herself on his notice any further. She was particularly pleased with the manner in which she had established Jane at Netherfield during the first weeks of the acquaintance; and though she could think of no such concrete example in the case of Lizzie and Mr. Darcy, she was sure their match must have been due, in some way, to her influence.

"You are very kind, sir," she simpered. "I must not consider myself _too_ responsible, for indeed these things will happen as they are intended to, without interference from any person. But I do flatter myself that the marriages would not have taken place if I had not ensured them."

"Is that not the duty of a fond mother? I daresay you could have done no better.—And now your thoughts must turn to Miss Bennet, I suppose, and in time you will begin thinking of Miss Katherine in such a way."

"Oh, I have already begun," Mrs. Bennet replied knowingly. "With my youngest girl already a mother, you know, I cannot see Mary and Kitty married too soon."

"And to great advantage; for young ladies, with such an energetic mother and two such generous brothers-in-law, must always have fine prospects."

Mrs. Bennet agreed readily, understanding Mr. Price's words to have a certain hint in them which she was pleased to hear. Kitty, though uncertain what her brothers-in-law had to do with her own marriage, was delighted at the turn of the conversation, though she would rather have been alone with Mr. Price, and heard again those fine compliments which he had so easily paid to her the night before. It was only Mary, whose reading was not so absorbing as to block out the general chatter of the room, who was dissatisfied.

Tea was finished, and the gentleman rose to take his leave with a great many praises of the ladies' hospitality and kindness. He was instructed to call again whenever he pleased, and whenever he was in the neighborhood, and made assurances that he should do so; and so, bidding the Bennets a very courteous farewell, Mr. Price stepped out again into the street.

"He is a most charming gentleman," Mrs. Bennet sighed fondly, watching from the window as he walked down Henry Street.

"I am sure Lydia would be quite jealous, if she were only to see him," Kitty giggled.

* * *

Mary heaved a small sigh as she turned another page of _The Italian_.

She could not deny that she did, as Miss Hart had suggested, find the book interesting. Though she had not the talent of losing herself entirely in fiction, as did some young ladies, Mary found the story at least diverting. She may not have thrilled with horror at the appearance of the ghostly monk, or moaned in distress as Vincentio and Paulo found themselves locked in the stone chamber—that was how Kitty would have read the book—but she kept reading in order to find out how things resolved themselves, and this was proof enough of interest on her part. The morals of the novel, she felt, were very good; she admired Ellena's modesty even in the face of Vincentio's ardent declarations, and she recognized the faults of logic and decency in the behavior of the wicked Marchesa.

But Mary could not view the book seriously. Was she intended to believe that this was a true story—that such abductions and cruelties were common occurences in foreign lands? She could not credit such an idea. It bore very little resemblance to the world she knew. There were no such men and women in real life; heroes and heroines and villains were not to be found in any assembly in England.

Furthermore, she found Vincentio, as a lover, quite foolish. He had fallen in love with Ellena di Rosalba before he ever learned her name, much less her disposition, and therefore he had fallen in love with nothing more than a face. It was all very well for a beauty like Rosamond Hart to read about loveliness engendering eternal devotion; but Mary Bennet was plain, and she recognized that eternal devotion, if such a thing existed, must be built upon a foundation of character and virtue, and a single glance was not enough.

"It is rather silly," Mary said, when Miss Hart pressed her for her opinion of the book. They were alone again at Hart House, Mary at the pianoforte and Miss Hart in the nearest chair.

"Yes," Miss Hart agreed placidly, to Mary's surprise. "I thought you would say so. But you must remember, Miss Bennet, that you are not reading history, and therefore you should expect a certain amount of silliness. Do you not see the value in such a work?"

Mary hesitated. "The moral sentiments are admirable," she admitted, "and the primary characters virtuous, and therefore I suppose the story may serve to reinforce a reader's notions of good and bad. But I do not see why a sermon may not do the same."

"Perhaps it may," Miss Hart said. "But have you never found that you learn better from experience, and not from study?—I suppose you will say 'no.'" She laughed. "Yet a great many people, Miss Bennet, have not your ability to take instruction from sermons alone. They must see good and bad principles acted out, in order to understand how such lessons may be applied in life. A novel affords such an opportunity."

"But it is all fantastic and romantic, and not to be taken as reality."

Miss Hart waved a dismissive hand. "As to _that_, it is only part of the form—but if you will look at the story in its simplest terms, you will see it is not so fanciful. There are a great many worthy young ladies who fall in love with men far above their station; and there are a great many gentlemen whose families do not at all approve of their choices."

Mary could not disagree with this, having two sisters and brothers-in-law who evinced Miss Hart's claim.

"It is all right for you to speak so, Miss Hart," she replied, "for you have an understanding of the genre, and can distinguish between the fantastic and the realistic. But I must argue that a novel is dangerous for the less critical reader, who cannot tell the difference, and will begin to see ghosts and villains and heroes in every corner.—I speak specifically of my sister, who has been fed too long on romances and now imagines herself in love with every handsome gentleman she sees, however unsuitable. It would be better if she read only sermons and books of instruction, for then she might learn that what is required of a romantic heroine is not often what is required of an honorable young lady."

"Kitty may have a quixotic turn of mind," Miss Rosamond said gently, "but she will learn soon enough what it is to exist in the living world. All that is required is one disappointment—one instance in which she cannot help but doubt her hero."

"I hope that disappointment will not come too late," Mary said severely.

"I am sure it will not," Miss Rosamond answered, smiling at her. "Kitty is fortunate; she has you to look after her."

Mary was not convinced by this. "She has never in her life done as I instructed."

"That does not mean she does not listen to you."

It seemed to Mary that Kitty certainly did _not_ listen to her. The turn of their conversation, however, brought to mind a point she thought prudent to discuss with Miss Rosamond, while they were alone.

"Miss Hart," she said, her conversation taking on a businesslike air, "do you like Mr. Price?"

Rosamond, to her surprise, hesitated. "I do not know him well," she replied carefully.

"You mean to be vague; but I think I can tell that you do not like him," Mary concluded.

"I would not like to speak ill of a gentleman of whom your family seems to have certain hopes," Rosamond answered reluctantly.

"Oh—you need not be afraid of offending me," Mary said, realizing now the reason for Miss Hart's hesitation. "_I_ have no hopes of him, except that he will return to London and marry someone else. I have spent only a few minutes in his company, but I cannot approve of him. His conversation is trivial, nothing but pleasantries, and I have never once seen him engaged in a useful occupation. I doubt very much that he possesses the essential seriousness of mind which will be necessary to preserve Katherine from a lifetime of folly."

Miss Hart gave a startled laugh. "Lord! What reasons you have for disliking people, Miss Bennet," she said, teasingly. "Such crimes may be attributed to half the men in Bath; they are, most of them, idle and pleasant."

"But you dislike him, as well," Mary pressed. Rosamond's smile faded.

"I have no very concrete reasons for doing so," she confessed. "It is only that he strikes me as rather presumptuous."

"This may point to a very serious fault in his character."

"Indeed; or it may only mean that he is awkward, but a worthy gentleman in essentials. I do not know enough of him to speak definitively. Yet am I right in suspecting, Miss Bennet, that you are requesting my assistance in some way? I doubt you would have broached the subject, otherwise."

"I would have you speak to Kitty about Mr. Price, and dissuade her from him," Mary said.

"Is that not an office better suited for her sister, than her friend?"

"Kitty disregards my views on almost every subject, but particularly on marriage. She thinks her own experience (for she has always enjoyed dancing and flirting with gentlemen) lends her greater authority. However, I believe she has greater faith in _your_ opinion than in mine, for you are not so opposed to the ballroom as I am, and I am certain you could easily persuade her to drop the acquaintance."

"That will be difficult to bring about," Rosamond said. "I should not like to behave officiously, or to interfere in a perfectly natural courtship. I know no real ill of the gentleman, and Kitty has already objected to my criticism of him—and that was offered at their first meeting. Now that she has grown to like him better, I doubt she should be so compliant as you suggest."

Mary had not known this, and she fell into a disappointed silence. Miss Rosamond seemed to sense her frustration, for she added,

"But I will speak to her, if you like, and hint that she might turn her eyes away from Mr. Price once in a while—at least until she knows him better."

"Or, better," Mary interjected, "shut her eyes altogether, for the present, and devote her time instead to improvement and education, that she might be better suited for the duties and difficulties of marriage when an appropriate gentleman does offer."

Miss Hart laughed. "I suspect such counsel is far beyond my powers of persuasion, Miss Bennet, but your concern for your sister does you a great deal of credit.—Have we not spoken enough, now? You are here to play, and I am here to listen. Are you going to begin with the Scarlatti?"

That had indeed been Mary's intention, and she settled herself at the pianoforte, allowing herself to forget her anxieties over her sister in favor of mastering a new sonata. Miss Hart, who had taken up a piece of needlework, again proved a most encouraging listener, and the time passed agreeably.

It was not until a full forty-five minutes had gone by that the door to the sitting-room was opened, and Mrs. Anne Hart was shown in by the maid. Miss Hart, with a little exclamation of surprise and pleasure, rose to greet her sister-in-law; and Mary, seeing that they were going to sit down together, was obliged to leave off playing and curtsy to the new arrival.

"I did not know you were coming to see me today, Anne," Miss Hart said, with a warm smile, once greetings had been exchanged and the ladies had sat down again.

"I have been to see your father," Mrs. Hart replied. Rosamond took her hand in concern.

"Are you unwell?"

"No—no—perfectly well," Anne said, though she was rather flushed. Rosamond regarded her seriously for a moment, but something in Mrs. Hart's looks appeared to satisfy her, for she said with a little laugh,

"It is strange to hear you say that, for it reminds me of your first time in Bath, before you and Theo were married. Anne used to have a regular appointment with my father every Thursday," she said, turning now to address Mary. "Yet she would hurry through her examination as quickly as she could, and then come in here and sit all afternoon; for indeed her true object in coming to Hart House was to flirt with my brother, and she gave not a second thought to her health!"

"It was fortunate that I was so devious," Anne answered, with a smile, "or I might yet be imprisoned at Rosings Park."

"Like a princess in a tower," Rosamond mused, "though I could hardly imagine Theo as any sort of prince. He is not particularly valiant."

"And I am hardly a princess," Anne replied drily. "My father was only a baronet."

"I am surprised to hear you speak of Rosings Park as a prison, Mrs. Hart," Mary said stiffly. "My cousin, Mr. Collins, gives me to understand that it is an excellent house, situated on a very fine piece of land, with a charming prospect from every window. My sister Elizabeth also commented on its beauty. I should think one should have only fond memories of such a home."

"Rosings Park is beautiful, yes," Mrs. Hart admitted, "but one must have more than beauty in order to make a home."

It was at this point that Mary recalled what Kitty had once whispered to her, about Anne Hart's estrangement from her mother; and she turned rather pink, realizing she must have unconsciously touched upon a delicate subject.

"Miss Bennet has been talking to me of _The Italian_," Miss Rosamond interposed, changing the subject deftly. "We have agreed that it is silly, but not entirely without its worth."

"That is an accurate depiction of most novels. Have you yet reached the point, Miss Bennet, where Vincentio comes to rescue her from the convent?"

"Anne, you will ruin it!"

"But of course she knew it must happen," Mrs. Hart protested, laughing, "for it is a novel, and such things must always happen in novels. Surely Miss Bennet did not expect the book to end _so_, with the heroine languishing in intolerable circumstances and the hero powerless to help her? That may be enough for life, but it is hardly acceptable in a novel."

They conversed upon the topic for a few minutes more. Mary longed to be at the pianoforte again; but something in Mrs. Hart's air intimated that she desired to be alone with her sister-in-law, and Mary had no wish to further impose herself upon the household. She rose, therefore, to take her leave, and was pleased when Rosamond extracted a promise that she should visit again soon, and work some more upon the Scarlatti.

"I thought it sounded quite good," she said cheerfully, "but I am sure your standards are much higher than mine."

Mary thanked her for her generosity, and bid the young lady a rather fonder farewell than she had before; for Miss Hart's agreement with her, upon the troubling matter of Mr. Price, had pleased her almost as much as had that young lady's appreciation of music. It had begun to occur to Mary that, despite her preference for novels over sermons and her great fondness for dancing and laughing, Rosamond Hart did perhaps possess a certain amount of good sense.

* * *

The following day brought a heavy gray rain, a portent of the still-distant autumn weather. Mary, who had hoped to walk to Green Park again, was disappointed; but her disappointment paled in comparison to that of her mother and sister, who were beside themselves.

"This rain acts most ill upon my nerves," Mrs. Bennet complained. "Nothing but damp all the day, and not a creature has come near us for a week at least."

"Mrs. Fitzwilliam called only yesterday, Mamma," Kitty reminded her dully.

"Oh, Mrs. Fitzwilliam! What good is Mrs. Fitzwilliam to us? Depend upon it, we shall hear nothing of Mr. Price or Mr. Hart for an age."

"That is as it should be," Mary said decisively. "An inability to be composed except in the company of gentlemen is a sad sign of our dependence upon male attention. We should devote this time to the improvement of our minds, that we may be better suited to endure our current isolation with fortitude."

"Oh, hush, Mary," returned Kitty bad-naturedly. "You wish Mr. Hart would call as much as anybody, for I am sure you never saw him once when you were lately at Hart House. You must be _pining_ for him by this time."

Mary glared at her. "I admit that I should be very glad of his company, if only because I am certain his conversation would be far more stimulating and intelligent than yours."

"Well, Mary," her sad mother interjected, hearing only a portion of Mary's comment, "I am afraid we shall have nothing of his company for quite a long time. Gentlemen do not often walk abroad in such weather."

The rain did offer certain benefits. With no place to go and no company to entertain, Kitty at last found the time to write a letter to Maria Lucas, detailing (though somewhat exaggerating) her adventures and romances, and Mary was able to complete much of _The Italian_. Only Mrs. Bennet was without any such employment, and she was quite content to occupy her time with making dismal predictions of their being forgotten and neglected by all their friends, and being obliged to return to Longbourn without ever having seen anybody.

"And then it is sure you girls will end up spinsters," she sighed gloomily, "and be a great burden to your father and me forever."

Her daughters, accustomed to such grim prophecies, paid her little attention.

Mrs. Bennet was glad to be proven wrong, however, when Mr. Finch and Mr. Theodore Hart arrived on a wet Saturday, bearing tidings that brought great joy to two of the ladies.

"A ball!" Kitty cried delightedly, the inclement weather forgotten.

"How good of your family to think of us, Mr. Finch," Mrs. Bennet declared graciously.

"We should be most glad if you and your daughters would join us, ma'am," the gentleman said quietly. Mr. Hart smiled at them.

"But of course we shall join you! Nothing in the world could please us better, could it, girls?"

"I am glad to hear it."

"And I am sure," the lady went on, taking on a teasing tone, "that you have already solicited Miss Hart's hand for the first dance, have you not? Do not be coy, sir; I know very well how it is."

She winked at him. Mr. Finch turned rather red; but Kitty, remembering Mr. Price's opinion on the subject, watched him carefully, and could not see the telltale smile or lowered eyes of the bashful lover. Indeed, there was nothing but plain embarrassment in all his looks. She thought, with a wave of sadness, that he must realize the hopelessness of his love.

"I am sure Rose will dance with him," Theodore Hart put in, glancing at his friend, "but she is hardly a stimulating enough partner to hold his interest for _all_ the evening; is that not so, Finch?"

He gave his friend a meaningful look. Mr. Finch coughed awkwardly.

"I hope I shall also have the great honor of dancing with Miss Bennet and Miss Katherine," he said, looking at both of these young ladies in turn. Mary, looking up from her book, opened her mouth to claim that she did not dance; but Kitty, her sympathies awakened by the blush still painting Mr. Finch's features, answered before her sister had the opportunity.

"It would be our pleasure, sir," she said, smiling at him. He looked at her with relief.

"You are very kind, Miss Katherine."

Mrs. Bennet urged the gentlemen to stay for a few minutes longer, but they were not at liberty to do so, for they had more invitations to deliver and the hour was already grown late. "Besides which," Mr. Hart laughed, "if we stayed any longer, our clothes should dry completely; and when we returned to the world again, we should find this rain an even more trying ordeal than we already have. But you are very good, ma'am."

The gentlemen bowed to the ladies most courteously, and hurried out into the downpour.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet said, with great satisfaction, once they had gone. "This is something to lift our spirits, girls, is it not?—I am sorry, for your sake, Mary, that it was the _elder_ Mr. Hart who came with Mr. Finch, and not the _younger_; but that is at least a certain proof that you shall see Robert Hart at the ball, with all his family. How civil those Finches are! I begin to think Miss Hart shall make an excellent match, for the living which Mr. Finch is to have is a good one, I have heard, and it is only in Larkhall, so she shall be quite close to her family. I always think it is best when a girl settles within easy distance of her family. I dislike very much having Lydia so far away in Newcastle, though I daresay she makes the most of it."

She went on in this vein for some time, though neither of her daughters paid her the least attention. Kitty, considering what she should wear to the ball, was beginning to wonder if Mr. Price would be there; and Mary, guessing what was in her sister's mind, was hoping very much that he would not.

* * *

The ball, however, was not for another week; and there were two more days of rain to be had before the sun shone again. Tempers began to flare within the Henry Street house, and when the rain at last lifted, the Bennets were more than happy to go out into the world, and spend some time in other company.

Mary's first object, after being so long indoors, was to make her way to Green Park. Having finished _The Italian_, she carried with her _Foundations of Natural Right_; but she could not lose herself in the text as she had on her previous visit to the park. With a little sigh, she shut the book and looked about her. The weather was very fine, even warm, as if in apology for the gloomy days which had preceded this one. The grass shone brilliant green under the beaming sun, and the glittering waters of the Avon looked rather inviting. Ladies were promenading in their summer prints, and a balmy breeze lifted the leaves on the treetops. The coming autumn, predicted by the cold drizzles of the past week, seemed miles away. Perhaps, Mary decided, the day was too fine for reading—this was a thought which had never occurred to her before, but she found herself now somehow dissatisfied with sitting beneath her tree; and she rose to her feet again, to walk along the little paths that ran across the grass and down to the riverbank.

It will come as no surprise to the reader that Mary soon met Mr. Robert Hart in the course of her ramble, for that is the way things always happen in stories. He had as much right and reason to be there as she: having been granted a rare morning away from his father's practice, he had attempted to devote himself to his medical texts, only to find himself lured out-of-doors by the beauty of the day; in short, he had been distracted from his more serious pursuits much as Mary had been distracted from hers, and had elected to forgive himself a morning of comparative idleness.

They greeted each other very amiably. Though Mary had not, as Kitty supposed, been_ pining_ for Robert's company, she was glad to see him, for she was certain she had not enjoyed a sensible conversation in all the days that she had been shut up with her family. She was pleased when Robert—who had been walking in the opposite direction—turned to match his steps to hers.

"This is a heavy book," he remarked, taking the text from her. "Is this what you bought at Mostyn's? Juliet brought me the same, but I have not yet had a chance to open it, having been so busy with my studies. Are you enjoying it?"

"I have hardly read beyond the first page," Mary replied, rather embarrassed. "My time has been much taken up with _The Italian_, which your sister has obliged me to read."

"I had forgotten about that," the gentleman said, with a small grin. "And did you enjoy your first novel, Miss Bennet?"

"I have discerned a certain value in the work—in _that_ work, that is, for I cannot speak for the entire genre—although I found the fanciful nature of the narrative rather off-putting. It detracted too much from the substance of the story."

"Novels, you know, are like a mirror of our society—even in their most fantastic form, they make some comment on the way we live, and the way we are. And it is only through a knowledge of ourselves," he added, smiling at her, "that we may learn how to improve."

"I am willing to agree with you," Mary answered, "particularly on the necessity of self-improvement, but you must admit that it is difficult to find the lesson when it is obscured by absurdity and irrational romance."

"Why did you find the romance irrational?"

Mary paused. Though she still had not detected any particular tenderness toward Robert Hart within herself, she was not accustomed to discussing romance with gentlemen. "It was based on nothing," she said, at last. "The gentleman decided to pursue the lady merely upon discovering her beauty. Such a marriage, I fear, is doomed to failure."

Robert gave a little laugh. "But he also found that she was virtuous, and intelligent, and of fine feelings."

"He was fortunate, then. Besides, virtue and intelligence do not necessarily denote compatability between two people."

"Not even when paired with such a supernatural attraction?" There was a teasing tone in his voice.

"Certainly not. Individual tastes, values, and opinions must be taken into account.—Your sister is very pretty, Mr. Hart, and very good, but that would not make her a suitable wife for a handsome and good-natured gentleman who despises the pianoforte and objects to women reading."

"Just as you, Miss Bennet, could never be happy with a gentleman who dines out every evening and attends weekly subscription balls, however equally matched you may be in intelligence and virtue."

"Quite so," Mary answered primly. "I am sure there is another, unseen chapter to _The Italian_, in which Ellena discovers that Vincentio brings home ten guests every evening, while she prefers a quiet family supper; and he accepts every invitation which she would rather reject; and he sits through mass every week out of duty, while she attends confession daily out of love; in short, that they are both good people, but their tastes and characters are ill-suited."

"I am sure that there would be far fewer unhappy marriages made, if only everyone shared your insight."

"You are mocking me," she said, frowning.

"I am not; I am in full agreement. It seems you have given much thought to the matter."

Mary was a little appeased. "Marriage is an important subject, and requires a great deal of consideration. Furthermore, I am now nineteen, the age at which most young ladies are beginning to think seriously of their prospects. It is only natural that I should have formed distinct opinions on the subject."

"Are you, then, quite ready to be married?"

She turned to him in surprise, irrationally afraid, for an instant, that she would see in his expression an unspoken question—but there was nothing but plain curiosity, and clear interest, in his gray eyes. Mary hesitated.

"My sister," she began, slowly, "is of the opinion that every young lady is ready to be married, and the matter only depends on finding a gentleman with whom she can fall in love. But I am sure that it is not so simple."

Mary glanced at Robert again. They had paused on the riverbank, and his gaze was directed out at the slow-moving waters.

"I confess," she said, in a low voice, "that I believe myself quite unprepared for marriage. I am too much attached to my solitary ways, and to the liberty of pursuing my own interests and my own passions, day after day. I do not think I could be happy, if I were now obliged to devote myself to someone else, and to have someone else devoted to me. I should find such unceasing attention vexing, at the very least. I have seen happy couples—my elder sisters were both fortunate enough to marry gentlemen very well-suited to them—and while the sight pleases me, as it must please any person of sense and good nature, I cannot yet imagine myself in such a position. I am afraid," she added, "that this is a most unnatural feeling, in a girl of my age; for my mother laments that I should have been married these three years at least. My youngest sister became a wife at the age of fifteen, though I fear her marriage will prove a disappointment to her."

"I am sorry to hear so. Yet perhaps it is a testament to the shrewdness of your feelings: marriage, at such a young age, is often based more upon impulse and attraction than true depth of feeling. My own sister is fifteen now, and I cannot imagine that her choice of husband would be particularly wise; it is a singularly romantic age."

"That is exactly what I mean." Mary, having heard much from her mother and even Kitty on the good fortune of Lydia's impetuous marriage, was glad of Robert's understanding.

"You speak very much in the present tense, Miss Bennet; do you think you shall ever feel otherwise on the subject?—Of your own marriage, I mean, not of marriages in general."

"I am sure I shall," she replied warmly. "I am sure I shall one day tire of my solitary ways, and find myself prepared to join my fortunes with those of another person; the ability to do always as I please, and spend my hours in whatever fashion best suits me, will not be so precious to me. I will instead find myself wishing I were with him, and forgoing my reading in favor of his conversation. But just now, I should not like to be accountable to anyone else, nor to have him accountable to me. Perhaps I will feel differently in a month or two, or perhaps it will be some years. I cannot tell."

"I think you are very wise," Robert Hart said, after a long pause. "I have always thought it strange, that many men do not marry until they are in their late twenties, or even in their thirties and forties; but women are looked at quite askance if they are not wives by the age of twenty-two or so. I believe it is as necessary for women as for men to know themselves before they can begin to know another—to have some time, if I may speak boldly, to be somewhat selfish, and devote their time to their own interests, before it is imposed upon by the duties of marriage. I am certain I could not be induced to marry at present; I shall have no interest for a year or two, at the very least. Twenty is too young to be made a husband."

"I am glad to hear you say so," Mary said, and indeed she was more pleased by his agreement than she could express. "It seems marriage is the only acceptable topic of conversation in my mother's household, and I am grown tired of hearing how perfect a match will be made between Kitty and Mr. Price, or between myself and—"

She stopped suddenly, aghast, having quite forgotten herself and her company; he looked at her with a small smile, an eyebrow raised. Mary's face colored very red, and she looked away; but, to her great relief, Robert made no attempt to urge her on, and instead said mildly,

"I understand your feelings. I suppose I am quite fortunate, for my father takes little interest in the romantic affairs of his children. It is only my brother and sisters who make hints, sometimes; but Theo and Helena may be excused, for they are each married, and married people have little occupation besides attempting to prod others into the state."

"And your other sisters?"

"Juliet is too young to take much notice of things beyond her own concerns. Rosamond encourages me in certain directions, but drops the subject once I begin questioning her on her _own_ prospects."

"That is wise of her," Mary said.

"Indeed, for I have all the relentlessness of an elder brother, and all the intuition of a twin."

"Are you the elder?"

"By a few minutes, only; and yet you may believe it is a fact which I frequently hold over my sister's head."

Mary gave him a little smile, glad that their conversation was moving away from the topic of marriage; for despite the unexpected pleasure of Robert's agreement with her own views (which she had been used to think so strange, so alien to anybody of her acquaintance), the embarrassment of her near-indiscretion was very much with her. She had no doubt that Robert had recognized his own name in her abrupt pause—Mrs. Bennet's behavior to him, and even Kitty's, had surely hinted to him their intentions—and she thought it very well-mannered and gentlemanlike of him to ignore her carelessness. Unexpectedly, a little swell of fondness for him rose in her chest.

Green Park was only a very small park, particularly when compared to the meadows and forests of Hertfordshire, and it was not long before they had walked up to the little lane that led to James Street. Mary looked back over the park with a small sigh, for she had no real desire to return again to Henry Street, where the Finches' ball would be the only topic of conversation for the foreseeable future. Robert appeared to notice her unhappiness, for he said gently,

"Miss Bennet, you are a creature of the countryside, and cannot spend your next months in Bath with only Green Park for solace. Surely you will grow tired of the view here, and will long for some other green place where you might be quiet. Would you permit me, over the next few days, to show you some of the other parks in the area, so you may at least have some variety?"

This proposal was indeed very agreeable to Mary, and she was pleased to accept. It was arranged that they would walk out again on the day after next, after Robert had completed his duties at the surgery.

"We will go to Henrietta Park," he decided, "for it is not far from your lodgings, so you shall be able to find it again without difficulty."

Their meeting was fixed for the afternoon; and these arrangements settled, they parted as pleasantly as they had met. Mary was able to return to her mother and sister with greater fortitude, for though she would hear of nothing but frivolity for the next days, she could look forward to at least one afternoon of sensible and interesting conversation.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **I must apologize again! I am so sorry. I have been bogged down with work, travel and graduate school applications. However, it is a slightly lengthier chapter than usual—perhaps out of some sense of contrition for the delay, but more likely just because, well, balls take up a lot of room. (TWSS?)

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

Under ordinary circumstances, Kitty would have been delighted to tease Mary about her "rendez-vous" with Robert Hart; indeed, when Mary returned from the arranged walk to Henrietta Park and confessed—grudgingly—to having spent the afternoon in the gentleman's company, Kitty was helpless to suppress a knowing grin, and cried,

"Then he invited you? This was an outing that was planned, and you have been looking forward to it since Tuesday? How sly of you, Mary, never to say anything to me or Mamma!"

That was all the attention she could afford upon the subject, however, for the Finches' ball was in only two days, and her mind was much taken up with her own concerns. She had heard nothing of Mr. Price since his visit to Henry Street a full week previous. She had hoped that he might solicit her hand for the first dance, as he had for the Wolfes' ball, but he seemed to have vanished into thin air, for there was nothing to be seen of him in any of the public places, and none of her friends could give her any news. She worried indeed that he might not even attend the ball, a fear which her affectionate mother was quick to dispel.

"He shall certainly be there, my love!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "Such a gentleman would scarce miss an opportunity of enjoying himself, particularly when he must know you will attend!"

"But we do not even know whether he is invited," Mary chimed in, with a hint of satisfaction. Kitty, who had not thought of this, gave a little wail of distress, and Mrs. Bennet turned on her elder daughter with a baleful stare.

"Of course he is invited! Do you think the Finches would have a ball and not invite him?" Adopting a soothing tone, she addressed Kitty. "My dear, you said he greeted Mr. Finch by name at the concert—so we know he is acquainted with the family. And he is also acquainted with the Harts, and I daresay with a hundred other families in the same circle, and so it is sure he is invited. It would be terribly impolite of the Finches to exclude him from the assembly; such a good-natured and handsome gentleman! He is a favorite of everybody, and so they could not help but invite him, or they would surely offend a great many people."

"Mamma, I am sure you are overstating the case," Mary said, though her sister looked somewhat appeased.

This matter settled to Mrs. Bennet's satisfaction, she turned her attention more fully upon Mary; for the _entire_ Hart family was known to have accepted the invitation.

"I do hope you will not behave so disagreeably this time, Mary," Mrs. Bennet declared. "You must make yourself very amiable to Mr. Hart and all his friends and family; take care to smile a great deal, and laugh very prettily, and you may try shrugging your shoulders the way I have seen Miss Bingley do, for it is very elegant and will disguise the awkwardness of your figure, as it does hers."

"It does not seem to have done Miss Bingley any good," Kitty interrupted, giggling, "for I begin to think she will never marry."

"My dear child, that is only because she has no prospects," Mrs. Bennet said wisely; "but her air and manners make her very much admired in the finest circles, though she has not the beauty of any of my daughters.—And you must know, Mary, that if I hear the words 'I do not dance' pass your lips, I will be quite furious, for there is nothing less attractive to a gentleman than a young lady who sits down for an entire ball, especially in Bath."

"You needn't tell her so, Mamma, for I am sure she has already promised Robert all her dances," Kitty said pertly. "They have seen each other _twice_ this week, and what else could they have spoken about?"

"Plenty, I assure you," was Mary's lofty response. "It may interest you to know that the subject of the Finches' ball has not arisen once in any of our conversations."

"La! She is only being coy now," Kitty laughed. "But come, Mamma, what am I to wear? I wish I could know for certain if Mr. Price is to attend, for then I could decide whether to wear my blue silk, or save it for another occasion. I should not like to waste it, for I think it is my prettiest gown. If he will not be there then I will wear my yellow muslin; it is so much simpler."

"Wear the silk, my love, indeed; for even if Mr. Price does not attend (though I am sure he will!), it is a private ball, and so everybody shall be dressed very fine."

This was logic which Kitty could not dispute.

Talk of the coming ball filled Henry Street for the entirety of the following day, for it was talk of which Kitty and her mother could never tire, particularly when the event itself was less than twenty-four hours away. Mary wished desperately that she could escape for a time, either to Hart House to practice or to one of the nearby parks to walk, but Mrs. Bennet was insistent that her daughters remain at home.

"How can you think of going somewhere when there are so many things to be done?" she demanded. "There is still your gown to be chosen, and possibly altered; and I would have Kitty show you again one or two of those newer dances, for I daresay you are no very great dancer, and I should not like Mr. Hart to be disappointed. And we must think of something to do with your hair."

"Such vanities are an affront to moral dignity," Mary protested. "I shall not wear my hair any differently than I ever do; and as to my gown, the dark blue I wore to the Wolfes' will be perfectly sufficient."

"Lord, Mary!" Kitty cried, scandalized. "You cannot wear the same gown to two balls in a row; it is quite _outré_!"

"Indeed, child," Mrs. Bennet agreed, glaring at her, "there is no question. I am sure you have another gown somewhere—something prettier, I hope, for that dark blue is very plain indeed—and if nothing of yours will suit, you must borrow something of your sister's.—No, Kitty," she continued, over her younger daughter's rising protests, "you must be prepared to be generous, for we cannot have Mary looking like a spinster before her time."

Kitty gave over to her mother's orders with rather poor grace, but comforted herself with the knowledge that Mary might at least look almost pretty for an evening, and that if Robert Hart were not already in love with her, he may very well make a proposal immediately upon catching sight of her looking so changed. Though Mary's romantic intrigues were necessarily of less interest to Kitty than her own, she nonetheless looked forward to a Bennet-Hart wedding with a great deal of enthusiasm. Kitty was a merry sort of girl, and had always enjoyed weddings; being excluded from Lydia's had been a great trial to her.

Mary, for her part, was quite unaccustomed to having her mother's attention fixed upon her so firmly. In years past, she had been left to her own devices when preparing for balls and assemblies, though her sisters had occasionally offered pieces of advice which she had largely disregarded. Her preparations had entailed nothing much: selecting a gown that was at least a little different from her day-dresses, perhaps donning a necklace or a pair of earrings if she felt very festive, and—most importantly—choosing a piece of music to perform for the assembly over supper.

With four other daughters to look after in the jungle of the ballroom, Mrs. Bennet had never spared much thought for her middle child, particularly as the others boasted greater beauty and more amiable temperaments than Mary could claim. It had always seemed a great deal more sensible for their mother to focus her substantial matchmaking efforts on the daughters who were most likely to attract the attention of suitable gentlemen, and Mary was not of that number.

However, circumstances had changed sufficiently that Mrs. Bennet could not now be content with allowing Mary to fend for herself. She had only two single daughters left, and Kitty, pretty and pleasant, certainly did not require all of her guidance; furthermore, Mary had managed to attract the attention of a gentleman who seemed undeterred by her plainness and her prickly temper. This, rather than reassuring Mrs. Bennet that her daughter had everything in hand, rather convinced her that Mary needed her now more than ever. Robert Hart's appearance in their lives seemed, to her, to be an act of Providence, and his notice of Mary nothing less than a miracle, and Mrs. Bennet feared that Mary, left to her own devices again, would certainly find some way of ruining this rare prospect forever. It was therefore necessary that she devote much of her attention to ensuring the gentleman's continued interest in her daughter.

Mrs. Bennet had not the sense, however, to understand that Mr. Hart's notice of Mary stemmed from the fact that she was Mary, rather than Kitty; that is, he was sufficiently interested and amused by her prickly temper to pay little heed to her plainness, and would not have found her such a worthy friend had she been prettier and pleasanter. To Mrs. Bennet's mind, there were only two things which could attract a gentleman when one had no fortune to speak of: beauty and charm. Mary possessed neither, and Mrs. Bennet, unable to see that Mr. Hart appreciated her most without them, was determined to at least give her daughter the appearance of these virtues.

That three of her daughters were already married played no small part in Mrs. Bennet's thought process. Jane and Lizzie had married remarkably well, and Lydia had married remarkably young—an achievement of a different sort but, in the eyes of her fond mother, an achievement nonetheless—and Mrs. Bennet attributed no small amount of credit for these triumphs to her own machinations. She had succeeded so well there, and was so close to success with Kitty as well, that surely Mary's chances with Robert Hart could only be improved by her mother's kind interference.

These happy thoughts were enough to carry Mrs. Bennet to the morning of the ball, which she spent merrily busying herself with the ensembles of both her children. The worthy lady had always found sartorial matters to her taste, and though she complained about the constant demands upon her time and attention, and declared how selfless she was in spending her day assisting her daughters with their _toilettes_ when she ought to be tending to her own; despite these perfunctory objections, she truly delighted in selecting gowns and accessories for each of her girls, and thrilled to see them dressed finely in the vestibule as they awaited their hired carriage. Indeed, thought Mrs. Bennet with great satisfaction, she should be quite shocked if another month in Bath left either Mary or Kitty still claiming "Bennet" as their surname.

Kitty had donned her blue silk gown, and ornamented it with a cameo on a white ribbon about her throat. Her hair, arranged in loose curls atop her head, was adorned with a new silver comb, of which she was very proud. She hoped desperately that Mr. Price would indeed attend the ball, for she felt she looked more fetching tonight than she had ever looked before in her life. It would be quite a shame, she felt, for all of her charm to go to waste. She fanned herself nervously.

Mary had, against her will, been forced into a pale pink muslin of Kitty's with a neckline that, while hardly scandalous by anybody's standards, plunged far lower than was her own custom. Her mother had draped Kitty's pearls about her neck and, rather than allowing her to pull her hair into her usual simple knot, had pinned it into a _chignon_ and added a satin bandeau.

"There," Mrs. Bennet had declared, thoroughly satisfied. "I daresay you look rather like Lizzy, my dear."

Mary, gazing at herself in the looking-glass, felt she looked more like Kitty than anyone else, though a far plainer and crosser version of Kitty; and after a time, the impression was so strong that she was obliged to look away. She was quite comfortable with her ill-favored features and sartorial simplicity, and to see herself dressed in the clothes of a prettier girl was thoroughly awkward. She felt as if she were play-acting—pretending to be one of her sisters—and though the fabric of the gown was only muslin, it felt as stiff and unyielding as if it were heavy brocade. Her collarbones and shoulders were cold where they were bared to the unfamiliar night air, and she was glad to put on her own plain cotton shawl as they hurried down the steps to the carriage.

The Finch family was a large brood, and prosperous (though Lady Catherine had long ago sniffed that Miss Constance Finch was quite an unsuitable match for Colonel Fitzwilliam, his being the second son of an earl). Mr. and Mrs. Finch were the proud parents of three sons and four daughters, and had raised Mrs. Fitzwilliam as well after the early deaths of her parents; and so their home on St. Stephen's Road, northeast of the Royal Crescent, had been built exceedingly spacious and very comfortable. Though the house was full, it was hardly the crush of the Wolfes' ball. The Bennet ladies were able to navigate the crowd with minimal fuss and effort, though Kitty was careful to hold her hem up high to avoid its being trod upon. The house glowed with the light of hundreds of candles, and a happy buzz of chatter filled the air. The music pouring out of the ballroom was lively, though the dancing had not yet begun, and many of the windows had been left open, allowing a cool evening breeze to filter through the warm rooms. Though summer was beginning to wane, many of the ladies appeared unwilling, as yet, to don darker shades for autumn: light summer silks and pale-colored muslins were still very much in appearance, lending the scene a particularly cheerful atmosphere.

"Is it not a charming assembly?" Mrs. Bennet whispered to her daughters. "I imagine this is all a compliment to Miss Hart."

Kitty gave a sad little sigh at this. It seemed very unfair for such a handsome gentleman as Oliver Finch to have his heart broken.

Fortunately, Mrs. Bennet made no mention of Miss Hart to their hostess as they stood in the receiving line. Instead, she offered her compliments on the beauty of the house and the decorations, and received in turn many warm thanks for their attendance.

"I have been particularly eager to meet the Miss Bennets," Mrs. Finch said kindly, smiling at the sisters. "It seems I have been hearing their names from one source or another for weeks now. We could not be more pleased that you have all come to Bath."

"You are too kind," Mrs. Bennet cried, flattered. "We have enjoyed ourselves immensely! I daresay we could not have been happier even if we were in London—is that not so, girls?"

Kitty agreed eagerly, though she was grown impatient with the Finches and had begun to look around for Mr. Price. Mary merely nodded.

A few more agreeable words were exchanged before Mrs. Bennet left Mrs. Finch to her other guests and guided her daughters toward the ballroom. It was bustling, like the vestibule, and Kitty's spirits lifted ever higher. The dancing had not officially begun, but a few very young ladies and gentlemen were capering lightly about to the music, laughing and cheering, while smiling parents and elder siblings looked on. Several groups had claimed seats along the walls and sat talking, while smaller parties strolled the length of the room, admiring the genial scene. Though there was no sign of Mr. Price, Kitty—who indeed enjoyed a ball above anything else—could not find it within herself to be very disappointed, when so much merriment was apparent.

The Harts had already arrived, and were seated near the dance-floor with a few friends. They eagerly welcomed the Bennets into their circle, and many happy and pleasant words were exchanged in greeting. Mrs. Bennet, sitting at a far edge of the group with Dr. Hart, was delighted to see Mary claim a chair beside Robert without any prompting, although that gentleman was soon engaged in conversation by his brother and they did not speak for some minutes. Mary was obliged to make conversation with Rosamond, on her other side, though she found this circumstance more agreeable now than she would have some weeks ago.

"That gown is very becoming, Miss Bennet," said Miss Hart, who herself looked exceedingly lovely in a gown of white muslin. "I do not think I have seen you dress in such a bright color before. It suits you."

"This is Kitty's," Mary replied, "and it does not suit me so well as my own clothes. Yet I appreciate your kindness; it is very charitable of you to offer your compliments, however unfounded they may be."

Rosamond laughed. "Very charitable indeed, when the receiver is so unwilling to be complimented! But we shall let the matter rest. How have you spent your days since I have seen you? I hope the rain did not spoil your enjoyment of Bath," she added, rather mischeviously.

"The rain was not unwelcome. It allowed me time to read and to write letters to my sisters."

"Do you write to them often?"

"As often as I can. Since we have come to Bath, the task has fallen to me; Katherine has little patience for correspondence, and my mother is not much better. My father writes to them quite regularly at home—to Elizabeth, at least, for Jane lives within walking-distance."

"Do you think Mr. Bennet will join you here before you leave?"

"Certainly not. Papa has no love of cities, and is more fond of his library than anyplace else. It takes a matter of great urgency to induce him to leave Longbourn, even to go into the village. He does not often like to go even as far as Netherfield, and has only been to Derbyshire once since Elizabeth's marriage, though he misses her dreadfully."

"I should like to meet your father," Rosamond mused, her large eyes thoughtful. "Mrs. Darcy spoke of him so affectionately when we were all at Pemberley in the autumn."

"He is perhaps most fond of Elizabeth out of all of us," Mary admitted, though the admission gave her some pain, "for she is most like him in temperament."

"But Mrs. Darcy is fond of walking and traveling, and has been to London and Bath and many other places; and you, I understand, loathe Bath most terribly, and cannot wait to go home again. Perhaps you are more like your father than you realize."

She was smiling, and Mary, rather surprised by the analysis, could think of nothing to say, besides "I do not loathe Bath _so_ terribly."

This made Miss Hart laugh. "Then your opinion of us has improved since your arrival," she said cheerfully, "and I am glad to hear it. But look now, Miss Bennet, Robert and Theo are finishing their tête-à-tête, and I know you are more anxious to speak to my brother than to me; so I shall leave you now in peace."

The musicians had struck a jubilant chord, signaling that the dancing was to begin, and indeed Theodore Hart had risen to his feet and was leading his wife onto the dance-floor. Miss Hart's exit from the conversation was not so spontaneous as she had made it seem, Mary noted, for even now there was a handsome gentleman in a very fine waistcoat coming toward her with a clear purpose in all his looks, and she was smiling at him. But Mary's thoughts were quickly distracted from Miss Hart by the sudden arrival of Mr. Price into their circle; he approached Kitty, who had been chatting with Anne and Juliet and another young lady, and bowed gallantly. Kitty's face betrayed all her delight, and she eagerly excused herself from her conversation in order to take his arm.

"Miss Hart!" Mary hissed, softly catching the young lady's wrist as she stood. "I pray you have not forgotten our earlier discussion."

Rosamond regarded her with momentary puzzlement, but following the direction of Mary's gaze, she quickly gave a nod of comprehension. "I have not yet had an opportunity," she replied in a low voice, "but I will speak to her when I can. Yet I pray you do not expect a great deal, for you know your sister's will better than I do.—Lord Adlam," she said at a more regular volume, turning and curtsying to the gentleman before her. He offered her a very low bow and a rather adoring smile, and in another moment they were gone.

"We shall tease her about _that_ before the evening is out," Robert Hart said at Mary's side. She did not take her eyes from Kitty, but her frown lifted a little in spite of herself. "But I hope you were not expecting me to seek your hand for the first dance, Miss Bennet," he went on, as the musicians struck the opening chords of the cotillion. "I am afraid the opportunity has been missed."

Mary turned to him in surprise. "You know I have no love of dancing," she objected, but it was clear by his grin that he was teasing.

"Indeed I do, and I am looking forward to this evening very much. There are few young ladies who demand so little from a gentleman: you care nothing for idle pleasantries, you have no desire to dance, and I am sure you would only glare at me if I tried to flirt with you." (Mary blushed a bit at this, but did not argue.) "I may therefore enjoy a comfortable evening, without being held to the standards of an eager miss who is evaluating potential husbands. _You_ have no need of a husband, and _I_ have no need of a wife, and so we may simply talk as friends."

"It is pleasing to form a friendship upon a foundation of honesty," Mary agreed warmly, her concern for her sister fading. "Our self-awareness frees us from the expectations of courtship; in knowing our own minds, we are unrestricted.—Although," she added, as an afterthought, "I imagine we ought to dance at least once, in order to appease my mother."

"Then let me know when you desire some exercise, and I will make a great show of asking for your hand."

"Oh, that is unnecessary," Mary assured him, "for it will only encourage her."

* * *

It would have been quite unnecessary for Mr. Price to say anything at all, at least in the first few moments of the cotillion, for Kitty's elation was sealed by the mere fact of his asking her to dance—and not for any dance, but for the _first_ dance of the evening. All her concerns about his attendance; all her frustration at his absence from Henry Street for the past week; these little worries had melted quickly away when she gazed into Mr. Price's very blue eyes, and heard him address himself to her with all the courtesy imaginable.

"I realize I should have solicited your hand earlier, Miss Bennet," he was saying now, "for I am sure it was only by luck that I was able to find you unengaged. I hope you are not too annoyed with me; I hope I was not too forward."

"Not at all," Kitty said breathlessly.

"That is a relief! And now I have the great honor of spending the opening dance in your fair company; and I may plainly say," Mr. Price went on, in a conspiratorial tone, "that the rest of the ball willl be nothing but dull for me. I am entirely certain that this will be the shining highlight of the evening."

"That is flattery, sir," his partner scolded, though she was smiling and there was a happy blush on her cheek.

"Not at all!" he cried. "It is all truth. It is foolish of me to claim this pleasure so early in the evening, knowing as I do that I cannot enjoy myself so well after this. But that is a flaw of mine, you know; I am dreadfully impatient, and cannot stand to have a pleasure delayed."

"That is not such a terrible flaw! I am much the same way."

He smiled at her. "I am glad to hear it. I always like to find that we have things in common."

Kitty could only agree to this, and they danced a few steps in happy silence.

"But tell me, Miss Bennet," the gentleman said after a moment. "When do you leave Bath?"

"Oh, Papa would have us home by Michaelmas, or soon after," she said casually.

"Michaelmas! That is very soon indeed—little more than a month." She was thrilled by the honest distress upon his brow.

"Yes, but I am sure it shall not be so; Mama will write to him and he will let us stay longer. He likes to have the house to himself, for he says we are all too noisy and silly, and distract him from his reading."

Mr. Price laughed. "I am surprised, then, that he wants you home so soon."

"It is only because he worries," Kitty said carelessly. "Ever since Lydia ran away with her Mr. Wickham, he thinks I shall follow in her footsteps. But Mama will convince Papa that I am being very good, and of course he never minds about Mary; _she_ certainly will not run away."

She bit her tongue then, for she knew she should not have mentioned Lydia. But the damage, if there was any, was done already; and to his credit, Mr. Price did not ask any more about her unfortunate sister.

"You _are_ being very good, Miss Bennet," he said instead, smiling. "All of the connections you have formed in Bath have been formed in respectable places: ballrooms and tea-rooms and friends' houses. I have heard no ill rumors about you, nor are you involved in any scandals, and you do not seem to have become particularly intimate with any single gentleman—save one—and he, I can assure you, is quite honorable."

Kitty went pink at this, her heart fluttering in delight. His use of the term _intimate_ pleased her immensely.

"I certainly hope so," she said demurely, "for I should hate for my confidence to be thrown away upon a gentleman of poor principles."

"You may rest safe in the knowledge that his principles are utterly decent and moral, and he has the utmost concern for good manners."

"But I remember him being very forward once," Kitty laughed, her eyes sparkling, "and offering me a great many pretty compliments, though to be sure he was only flattering me."

"Unaccountable of him! I must take care then that my compliments are perfectly honest, in order to make amends for this gentleman's faults. So I will say that you look extremely pretty this evening, Miss Bennet, and are in a particularly charming humor. I hope you do not take it as flattery."

Kitty blushed again, but the steps of the dance separated them and she could make no reply for a moment. When she returned to him, he was regarding her more seriously.

"My dear Miss Bennet," he said, "I hope I am not being too forward if I express a wish that I may see more of you in the days to come. I have greatly enjoyed our meetings, and it pains me to hear that you will be leaving Bath—whether at Michaelmas or later. I should hate for us to part ways without becoming much better acquainted."

"But surely you will also be leaving Bath soon," Kitty said; "for you live in London, and you must have business to attend to there."

"For now, I am content to stay where I am," the gentleman replied. "What business arises can be handled with short trips to and from Town. But I must leave Bath eventually; you are quite right; and once you have gone away, I doubt there will be anything else to hold me here."

Kitty glowed with pleasure; however optimistic she had been of Mr. Price, she had not expected such a blatant and early expression of preference. To know that _she_ was his reason for remaining in Bath—! But she tried to hide her eagerness, in the fashion of an elegant young lady, and answered only,

"You have told me before that you wished to see more of me; and then a week went by with only a single glimpse of you. I am not sure I believe you now."

"But you must believe me; I would have spent every afternoon at Henry Street if I could. I was only wary of provoking your displeasure, for I should never like to be in the way—and further, I would not have the gossips of Bath discussing my constant presence in your drawing-room—not when we are so little acquainted, at least in their eyes."

Kitty waved a dismissive hand. She could not see the harm in being talked about so—not when she had every intention of marrying the gentleman in question, at a grand wedding with many guests, and so putting paid to any malicious rumors. "What does that matter, when we like each other?" she demanded, gazing up at him. "It isn't as though there is anything _wrong_ with seeing one's friends—and we are friends, aren't we, Mr. Price?"

His reply was delayed by the end of the dance. They stood facing each other, applauding the musicians, before he stepped forward and offered her an arm. She took it, and he leaned close to her to say,

"We are friends indeed; good friends. I am glad to hear your opinion; I am glad it is so like my own. In this, as in all things, we are well-matched! I shall be less afraid, now, of coming to see you, and walk with you in the parks and the Pump-room. Should you like to walk out tomorrow?"

She beamed at him. "I should like that very much!"

They had reached her group of friends, but as he made to hand her into her seat, Kitty found she had no wish to let him go. "Will you sit?" she asked, but to her dismay, he shook his head gently.

"I have promised to visit a friend in the card-room. But if I may, I should be honored to find you again later, and enjoy your company for a second dance."

"You may indeed," was her reply, and he gave her a very low bow before taking his leave. She watched him go, her heart beating rapidly in her breast, and for a moment she had a desire to run after him and insist on staying by his side. But she dismissed this as ridiculous, and turned with a bright smile to Juliet, who immediately offered her a kind compliment on her dancing.

Mr. Price's concern for her reputation pleased Kitty very much; not only because it proved that he had feelings for her (else why should he worry so about appearances?) but because it disproved her darkest, most secret fear: that he was a man like Mr. Wickham, who might induce her to do something dishonorable. A gentleman who concerned himself with the reputation of his lady friend could have no untoward intentions, she reasoned, and he was certainly not the type of man to coax a young lady from the safety of her friends and family. She glanced again in the direction he had gone; she could see the strong line of his back as he made his way across the increasingly crowded ball room and disappeared into the vestibule.

The other dancers in their circle had also returned to their seats. Rosamond's handsome partner lingered for some minutes, speaking earnestly with Theodore Hart, until at last he bowed to them all and took his leave. Kitty was pleased to see him go, for Oliver Finch and two of his sisters had joined their circle. But her relief was short-lived, for as the gentleman departed, Theo Hart remarked with amusement,

"Never have I met a gentleman so eager to like me—or, I should say, to have me like him. I wonder why he should be so. Do you know, Rose? Has his Lordship mentioned the matter to you?"

"What matter is that?" Rose asked. "I am afraid I have not been listening."

"The matter of his enthusiasm for our family. He seems quite enamored of us—laughing at all of my jests, and feigning keen interest in all my conversation, and dancing with you when there are dozens of other ladies he could choose instead. I have even seen him speak agreeably with Robert, a thing quite unheard of. Do you not find it puzzling?"

"I pity the gentleman," Anne Hart interjected, smiling, "for _whatever_ it is which drives Lord Adlam to seek your favor, Theo, has not allowed him an easy road."

"Which makes the case all the more mysterious," Theo agreed. "None of us Harts are very likable, and yet his Lordship is quite determined to like us. Perhaps you should ask him about it, Rosie, when next you dance together."

"Theodore," Rosamond said coolly, "if you call me that again, you shall be very sorry."

"Forgive me; I shall leave that nickname for Lord Adlam's _personal_ use."

"Theodore!" Anne cried, batting her husband on the arm, as Rosamond went very red—redder than Kitty had ever seen her, if indeed she had ever seen the young lady blush—and Kitty, glancing at Oliver Finch, cried "Oh, don't! You mustn't!"

They all turned to her, and it was her turn to redden, as she stammered, "I only meant—you mustn't tease poor Rose so much; she is blushing."

But she was not anymore, for she had gone quite pale, and her large gray eyes were narrowed at her brother in unmistakable displeasure. Kitty had never seen her friend so vexed, and it seemed her family was scarcely more familiar with the sight, for Theodore was looking at her now with some surprise.

"Rosamond—" he tried, remorse in all his looks, but his sister turned away angrily.

"Kitty," she said, with forced pleasantness, "shall we take a turn about the room?"

Kitty could not refuse, and the two young ladies rose, Rosamond linking their arms closely as they walked away.

Mrs. Bennet, seated at the edge of the grouping with Dr. Hart and a few other older ladies and gentlemen, heard nothing of the upset between brother and sister; but she watched happily as Rosamond and Kitty walked together. "Is it not very agreeable, Dr. Hart, that your daughter and mine are such very particular friends?" she exclaimed.

"It is agreeable indeed. I am always glad to see my children making new friends, particularly when the relationship is one which brings such an amiable family into our circle of acquaintance."

"Oh, to be sure! I am always pleased when one of my girls meets somebody with brothers and sisters, for then all of them may find somebody new to talk with. The Lucases, now, are a large family in our neighborhood, and their eldest daughter, who is married now, has been a great friend to _my _two eldest, and their younger daughter has always been very close with Kitty and Lydia. I speak of Sir William and Lady Lucas, of course, who are such excellent neighbors, and so humble and well-mannered that you would never know him to be a man of rank. Unfortunately all of their sons are younger than my girls, or perhaps there might have been something…but it has all turned out well anyway. Very well indeed," she added, catching sight of Robert and Mary sitting together. She turned again to Dr. Hart, whose attention had wandered somewhat during her description of the Lucases, and said slyly, "And are you not pleased that Mr. Robert and my Mary have gotten along so well together? I am sure I have never seen Mary so amiable with a gentleman before!"

"I believe Robert thinks very highly of Miss Bennet," Dr. Hart agreed, smiling.

"And I know she is quite fond of him," Mrs. Bennet answered, beaming. "You must tell Robert that he is always very welcome at Henry Street, for I always think it is best when young people see a great deal of one another."

"That is very kind of you, Mrs Bennet. I know Robert will greatly appreciate the invitation."

"Or if he should like to walk with her to the Pump-room, or any of the other public places, you must tell him that he is very welcome to do so. I should be happy to have her out of the house more often, and she will be glad to see him."

"Indeed, and I am sure he will be glad to spend time with her."

This last was said agreeably, but casually; yet Mrs. Bennet saw in it a confirmation, on the part of the gentleman's father, of her dearest wish. She sat in a jubilant silence for a minute or two, before Mrs. Wolfe turned to her and asked pleasantly whether she had yet visited the Roman Baths. This brought about a discourse upon the state of Mrs. Bennet's nerves, and the solicitation of Dr. Hart's medical opinion, and for the moment Robert and Mary were quite forgotten.

"Should you like to go after her?" Mary was asking quietly, as Rosamond left with Kitty. She felt quite sorry for Miss Hart, having herself been embarrassed more than once by a thoughtless sibling. Robert shook his head.

"She does not want me to go after her."

"How do you know?"

He gave her a small smile. "We are twins, Miss Bennet. I always know."

They sat quietly, watching Rosamond and Kitty weave carefully around the dancers toward the door onto the terrace. "I must confess, Mr. Hart," Mary said after a moment, "I cannot help but envy the confidence you share with your brother and sisters—particularly Miss Hart. It seems to me an admirable example of familial affection."

"Do you not share such 'familial affection' with your own sisters?"

Mary hesitated. "I am not like any of my sisters," she replied finally. "My concerns and interests differ from theirs, and I often find it difficult to converse with any of them. Either they do not take my meaning, or I do not take theirs. I often feel," she went on, more softly, "that I do not understand the world as it is presented to me. I cannot see the appeal in balls and parties; and whenever I attempt to make conversation, I cannot seem to do it so pleasantly or easily as everybody else. I do not laugh at the right things or make the right observations. My sisters all have their various charms, and they talk together of neighbors and balls and gentlemen and other such things, and I want to talk about—about music, or books, or ideas, and they look at me strangely." She was suddenly quite aware that Robert was regarding her with sympathy in his clear gray eyes. "But then," she added, in a hasty attempt to dispel the gloom, "we are five, and so I suppose someone must always be left out. I may attribute my misfortune to Fate, who saw fit to place me in the middle."

"I am sorry to hear you speak so unhappily," Robert answered. "But are not you and Miss Katherine the only sisters still at home? Has this improved relations between the two of you?"

"Hardly at all; for though she is not so silly and foolish as she was under Lydia's influence, Kitty remains Kitty. She is younger than I am—I do not mean in age, for there is only a year between us, but in her cares and concerns. She looks forward only to being married."

"There are some who would argue that that points to a certain maturity."

"Yes, but not the way Kitty sees it. You have heard my views on marriage; she dismisses them utterly. _She_ would believe the version of marriage presented in _The Italian_—for her it is only the joining of two attractive people, with one or two interests in common, so that the young lady in question may flaunt her ring and her married name to all her friends." She spoke bitterly, the concerns she had discussed with Miss Hart uppermost in her mind. "Kitty never listens to me—and being in Bath makes it worse altogether. There is too much temptation here, and too many opportunities for her to enjoy herself."

"You fear she will forgo more serious pursuits in favor of the most pleasant ones."

"Indeed, for she always does. She cares little for reading, except silly novels, and she devotes none of her time to reflection or sensible thought. She lives too much in the world beyond her head."

"The world you do not understand, you mean."

"Yes," Mary answered, though she did not entirely take his meaning.

"Then you and your sister shoulder opposite burdens; she lives too much in the world, and you live in it too little. Perhaps you might influence one another, and thus produce two more happily-situated people."

"But I do not want to live in the world," Mary protested. "I am dissatisfied with it. It is a shallow, empty place, and I do not fit in."

She bit her tongue; this last was more than she had meant to admit. Robert was gazing at her seriously.

"You are ill-at-ease tonight; I can see it. Is it the gown you are wearing? I heard you tell Rosamond that it was not yours."

"Do not be absurd," Mary answered, blushing. "My attire has no effect on my mental state; I am perfectly able to lift my mind above sartorial concerns." But she glanced down, and saw the unfamiliar pink fabric swathing her unusually exposed bosom, and she frowned.

"You look rather pretty, Miss Bennet, if that helps at all."

She looked up sharply and met his eyes. He grinned at her.

"I know it does not help overmuch, for _you_ can never be easy in a ballroom—or, for that matter, in Bath. But I thought I should tell you, just in case. Most young ladies like to hear such things."

"I am not 'most young ladies,' sir."

"No, and I have already expressed my happiness at that fact. If you were, I should be obliged to pay a far greater compliment in order to induce satisfaction. Few women would be satisfied with 'rather pretty'; they should insist upon 'exceedingly lovely' or at least 'extremely pretty.' But you should turn up your nose at such offerings."

"They are ill-worded compliments, without a great deal of sense behind them. I am perfectly aware that I am no beauty, and to be told otherwise is flattery at best, or mockery at worst." But she allowed him a very small smile, and did breathe a little easier in Kitty's gown.

"There! You see? How I prize such honesty. And now, Miss Bennet," he added, "I think we may go find my sister and yours."

"You said Miss Rosamond would not want you to follow her."

"She would not, when you asked; but her mood will have changed by now, and she may be glad to have me by. But first let us walk about the ballroom."

Mary agreed, and he rose, offering her an arm. Mrs. Bennet, seeing this, was pleased beyond reckoning, and could not help telling Mrs. Wolfe and Mrs. Carpenter beside her how _very_ much she looked forward to a favorable match for her elder daughter.

"My Mary has never looked twice at any of the gentlemen at home," she whispered with great significance, "but I believe she has found something here in Bath to keep her attention."

The ladies, following Mrs. Bennet's gaze, took her meaning immediately.

* * *

Rosamond did not speak as they walked through the ballroom, arm-in-arm, like so many other merrier pairs of young ladies. Kitty, out of her depth, kept her own silence; Lydia's surges of temper had always been shrill, but short, and required no more soothing than a few vaguely sympathetic noises and agreements. Rosamond's anger seemed somehow more complex—certainly it lacked the shrieks of outrage that habitually accompanied Lydia's outbursts.

It was not until they had slipped by the full dance-floor and gained the terrace that Rosamond, breaking away from Kitty to lean her back against the wall of the house, at last broke her silence with a deep breath.

"It is much cooler out here," she said softly.

The terrace was largely empty; only a few small groups stood about, speaking quietly and breaking into laughter every-so-often. The night air was a welcome cold after the heat of the ballroom, and the muted strains of the music lent a pleasant tranquility to the scene. Rosamond rested her head briefly against the wall, before meeting Kitty's eyes again.

"Forgive me, Kitty, for pulling you away from the ballroom," she said. "You did not have to walk with me, but it was good of you to do so."

"It is all right," Kitty replied, "for I like it out here; it is nice to be away from the noise for awhile." She hesitated, then, "Are you very angry with Mr. Hart?"

Rosamond gave a little smile. "I fear my pride is pricked more than my temper. I expected my brother to tease me—he always does—but I wish he had not been quite so cutting. Theo often speaks rather thoughtlessly; it is only unfortunate that he did so tonight in front of all our friends."

"Yes," Kitty agreed readily, "for I saw Mr. Finch was there."

"Mr. Finch, and the Miss Finches, and Mr. Carpenter, and you and your sister, and a few other ladies and gentlemen before whom I wish my brother could have held his tongue. Everyone understood his meaning from the first; he should not have made the joke so explicit." For a moment the vexation was back upon her face, and her eyes flared. "It was ill-mannered and callous, and it was unfair to me and to Lord Adlam."

"Indeed," Kitty said, seeing a sudden glimmer of hope for Mr. Finch, "Mr. Hart should not tease so plainly about an attachment where none has been confirmed. It would not do to have everybody think you are in love with one gentleman, when you may prefer another."

Rosamond did not reply; she seemed to be thinking of something else, her fair brow furrowed. Tireless, Kitty made another sally on behalf of her favorite.

"It is not as though you are _engaged_ to his Lordship; really you only danced with him. Anybody may dance with a gentleman. Perhaps next you shall dance with Mr. Finch."

Rosamond turned her gaze suddenly upon her friend and gave another little smile. "_You_ danced with a gentleman tonight, Kitty; did you enjoy your dance with Mr. Price?"

Kitty sensed that Rose did not wish to discuss Lord Adlam and Mr. Finch any longer; furthermore, she was eager to talk of the happy quarter-hour she had spent in the arms of her suitor. "Very much," she said, glancing about to ensure their privacy. She leaned closer to her friend, speaking in a lower voice. "He has told me that he prefers me above anybody else. I am going to dance with him later, and go to the Pump-room with him tomorrow, and he will call again the day after; I am sure of it. And then it is only a little time until we are engaged and married forever. Won't Mamma be pleased!"

"You have truly settled your hopes upon him, then?"

Kitty frowned at the look of concern on Rosamond's face. "Indeed I have; he is the only gentleman I have ever loved, or ever shall," she replied defiantly. "You needn't look so disapproving. I cannot tell why you dislike him, Rose, for he is the most amiable gentleman there has ever been, and he is in love with me."

"It is not that I dislike him," Rosamond protested gently. "I only worry that you have made a hasty choice. Marriage, you know, is not something to take lightly; and you have only known Mr. Price for a matter of days. How many times have you met—four? Five? And those have been brief meetings, in ballrooms and concert-halls. There are plenty of other gentlemen for you to meet, Kitty, and plenty of time for you to meet them; indeed, you may even find that you are not ready to marry at all. I should hate to see you devote yourself to Mr. Price so rashly."

"You are unfortunate, then, for I have already devoted myself to him," was Kitty's heated reply. All of the elation she had felt upon the dance-floor, all of her sympathy for mortified Rosamond, was draining away, and she was left annoyed and angry. Rosamond's interference was unaccountable, and she wished very much that her friend would leave her alone.

"I know you have not asked for my counsel, Kitty," Rosamond replied, patiently. "And I am sorry to give advice where it is not wanted. But _if_ you were to ask, I would advise you very strongly as a friend to allow your head, rather than your heart, to guide you in this matter. To attach yourself, even in thought, to a gentleman, before you are sure of his character, his situation, even his regard for you—it is unwise."

"You sound like Mary," Kitty snapped, "and you know no more of love than she does. I am sure of his character and of his regard for me; it is only his _situation_ which remains a mystery, and by that I suppose you mean his income. I confess I do not know how much he has a year, for we have never discussed it, but I may tell you that I don't care a fig for his income; I am not like _some_ young ladies who are attracted to wealth and titles only, and will flirt with a lord only because he is a lord."

"_That_ is unkind," Rosamond declared with unexpected force, her good nature perhaps already tried by the events of the evening. She fixed Kitty with a glare, cold and level and foreign upon her usually tranquil features, and Kitty nearly took a step back despite her indignation. "You are being spiteful, and I will speak no more of this with you. But I will ask you one question: would you be so angry with me now if you were not yourself uncertain of Mr. Price's intentions?"

Kitty opened her mouth to respond, but they were at that moment interrupted; Robert and Mary had come out onto the terrace.

"Here you are, sister," Robert greeted them, "and you, Miss Katherine," with a small bow, but his gaze returned quickly to his twin. "Shall we return to the ballroom, or have you not yet had your fill of fresh air?"

It was quite plain that the question he had asked aloud was not the question he truly intended. There was concern in all his looks.

"In fact I am grown rather chilled," Rosamond replied quietly after a moment. "I should like to go inside again."

Robert nodded, and Mary released his arm as he moved forward to walk with Rosamond. She herself fell into step beside Kitty, who was silent; the twins, walking ahead, were speaking in low voices inaudible to the young ladies behind them. Mary watched with a sudden soft tightening in her chest as Robert reached an arm across his sister's pale slender shoulders, pulled her gently toward him in a fond half-embrace, and let her go.

A wave of heat and light met them as they opened the doors, and the ballroom seemed raucous after the quiet of the terrace. Kitty was glad to be back in this land of laughter and chatter and lively music; the happy noises were comforting, and she allowed her crossness with Rosamond to fade gently to the back of her mind. She felt as if her dance with Mr. Price had only just ended, and none of the unpleasant moments of the evening had ever taken place.

'And, after all,' she thought with returning cheerfulness, 'I have another dance with him to look forward to.'

But he was not there when they reached their seats, and instead it was Mr. Carpenter who asked her to dance. She accepted, and they whirled away into the crowd upon the dance-floor. Mary was left alone with Robert; for as they had rejoined their friends, Theodore had asked Rosamond very contritely if he might speak with her, and they had gone out into the vestibule.

"He will be very kind to her for a week or so," Robert said confidentially to Mary, "and exceedingly solicitous; and he may buy her a new novel or a new set of paints. And she will forgive him, of course. And then within a month or two he will say some other careless thing, to her or to Juliet or—worst of all, for him—to Anne. Theo can sometimes be rather clumsy."

"Does he never say such careless things to you?"

"Not very often; or at least I don't mind so much. And there is little for him to tease me about—I have no Lord Adlam trailing me about like a puppy on a leash."

Mary wondered, for a moment, if Theodore Hart had ever teased his brother about _her_; but the thought was too mortifying to contemplate, and she said instead, "Do you think, then, that his Lordship is in love with your sister?"

"Oh, to be sure. For some time now, I imagine."

Mary was somewhat surprised at this nonchalant response. "And she—does she love him?"

Robert looked at her with amusement. "That is her concern and hers alone, at least for the present time. But do I detect a note of curiosity in your tone? May it be said that Miss Mary Bennet of Longbourn is pressing for a piece of gossip?"

"No indeed," Mary exclaimed, drawing back. "I object to gossip on strong moral grounds: too much concern in the affairs of others detracts from the more serious matters of self-reflection and self-understanding. Such scrutiny should only be given to our own affairs, that we may better ourselves."

"But," she added, with a very small smile, "it _may_ be said that Miss Mary Bennet of Longbourn, like anybody else, does not object to knowing a bit of news."

He stared at her a moment longer, and then gave a little laugh. "I am glad to hear you speak so honestly," he said with mock seriousness.

"It is a very good match," Mrs. Bennet was saying merrily. She had left her seat to fetch a cup of wine, and was walking now with Mrs. Seabrook and Mrs. Hardwick, surveying the lively scene. "Of course my two eldest have married best—Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley, you know, of Pemberley and Netherfield—but I confess I could not wish better for Mary. Dr. Hart's family is so very respected here, and I understand his son intends to carry on his practice. And he pays Mary such attention; he is scarce to be parted from her at a ball or a concert, and they are always talking so earnestly together. I am sure there is already a very strong attachment between them."

Her friends offered mild agreements and vague congratulations, and changed the topic to something more generally interesting, as they took their seats again.

* * *

The ball carried on. Kitty, dancing with Mr. Carpenter, could think only of Mr. Price; she scanned the room for a sign of him, and thought she saw him once or twice with a group of gentlemen, but could not be certain. Mary and Robert, appealed to by Mrs. Hart, joined the general conversation regarding Mr. Warner's recent book on the Roman antiquities found in Bath, and Mary, to her surprise, found the discussion remarkably interesting. Theodore and Rosamond rejoined the party, and Theo reported that they had seen some of the preparations for supper while they had stood in the vestibule, and the meal looked thoroughly promising. This news was greeted with general approval, for indeed there had already been four dances, and many bellies were beginning to feel rather empty.

"I confess, the prospect of a good supper is often my sole reason for attending a ball," Rosamond laughed; and Mr. Finch, seated beside her, said rather shyly,

"Then I suppose I must dance with you now, Miss Hart, in case you decide to take your leave after eating your fill."

"Upon my word, Finch," Robert exclaimed, "did you just contrive to tease my sister? You are grown bolder by the day."

"It seems I am an easy target this evening," Rosamond sighed, but there was no ill humor in it, and she took the arm which Mr. Finch offered her as they made their way to the dance-floor. Kitty, passing by with Mr. Carpenter on her way back to her seat, would have been gladder to see her friend upon the clergyman's arm, if she were not still rather vexed with Rosamond.

The supper indeed lived up to Theodore's promises, and their table was a merry island in a sea of similarly merry islands. The dining-room echoed with laughter and chatter just as the ballroom had earlier, though Mary, with a wince, was able to discern her mother's voice over the cheerful din, exclaiming upon the great advantages of a match between the Bennets and the Harts.

"For then Mr. Bennet will never complain about our coming to Bath," Mrs. Bennet was explaining happily to Mrs. Cooke, "and I shall be able to come and take the waters whenever I please! I have found, you know, that they do wonders for my poor nerves. And of course my nerves may well be soothed by the mere fact of having a physician in the family! Then I may always depend upon receiving the best care."

Mary glanced warily at Robert, but he was speaking with Miss Wolfe and seemed not to have heard.

They ate and drank well. Mrs. Finch, in her duty as hostess, invited several young ladies to the pianoforte; Rosamond Hart was the first she called, and Mary was able to admit somewhat less grudgingly than before how skillfully the young lady played. Miss Hart was followed by Miss Carpenter, and then Miss Wolfe (Mrs. Bennet was pleased to see this young lady torn from her conversation with Robert Hart), and a few other young ladies, who played well but not as fluently as Miss Hart—nor, Mary was inclined to think, as ably as she herself might have performed. She wished it were more generally known that she played, so that she might be invited to exhibit; though she did worry privately that an audience of Bath strangers might prove more daunting than an audience of Meryton neighbors.

Upon returning to the ballroom, Kitty found herself approached by Mr. Finch, who quietly asked if he might claim his promised dance with her. She sighed, feeling somewhat less charitable now than she had when he had blushingly made the request in the drawing room at Henry Street; but upon glancing around, she could see no sign of Mr. Price, and obligingly took his arm.

It was a slower dance, more suitable for the late hour than the reels and country dances that had been played before, but to Kitty's mind it was an unfortunate choice, for it offered a great deal of opportunity for conversation. She liked Mr. Finch very well indeed as a tragic hero in danger of losing his true love to a wealthy villain; she thought him rather sweet, with his gentle eyes and his quiet voice; but as a conversational partner, she could not help finding him the dullest man in the world. There was not a word spoken between them for a full minute into the dance, until at last she turned to him and gave a small compliment on the beauty of the ballroom, for which he thanked her.

"You have a very beautiful home here," she went on, scanning the seated crowd for Mr. Price. She could not see him. "I imagine you will be sorry to leave it for Larkhall."

"Indeed, but I find Larkhall very pleasant."

"And of course you will be near enough that you may always visit," Kitty added, after a moment, "so you will not miss your brothers and sisters very much."

"Yes, it is very convenient."

Silence prevailed.

"Have you lived always in Bath, Mr. Finch?" Kitty asked desperately.

"Oh, yes. That is, I was born in Wellow, but we moved to Bath soon after, and I grew up here."

There was another long stretch of silence. Mr. Finch appeared to be blushing.

"I have been enjoying Bath very much," Kitty volunteered. "I have hardly left Hertfordshire, you know, except to visit Lizzie—my elder sister—at Pemberley. I find Bath far more exciting than Meryton."

"Oh, indeed?" Mr. Finch replied. There was an expression approaching despair upon his face. He hesitated for a moment, and then: "How have you been spending your time here?"

"Oh, as anybody does," Kitty answered, pleased to have at last been asked a question. "I have been to two balls already, as you know for I have seen you at both of them; and I attended a concert with the Harts, but of course you know that as well, for you were there; and during the day I call on people, and shop, and go to the Pump-room—but _that_ you know as well, for I see you quite often. Indeed, Mr. Finch," she laughed, "there is no reason for us to be as poorly acquainted as we are, for I believe I have seen you almost every time I have gone out. I suppose that is because we both spend so much time with Rosamond."

She regretted the words as soon as she said them. The mention of Rosamond must not only be painful to her spurned lover, but Kitty herself was still displeased with that young lady, and did not wish to think about her.

"Miss Hart is very amiable," Mr. Finch said. "Indeed, I think her more amiable—almost more amiable—than any young lady of my acquaintance." He was blushing again.

This was proof enough for Kitty of his hopeless love, and she hastened to change the subject, feeling remorse for all of her unkind thoughts regarding poor Mr. Finch.

"Well," she said, "I hope we may come to know one another better, Mr. Finch, whether Miss Hart is with us or no. Will you call on us at Henry Street some time? I am sure Mary would like to speak with you, for she is very interested in religion and reads a great many sermons."

"I would like that exceedingly," he answered, very red now indeed. Kitty, regarding him, wondered idly if Mr. Price ever blushed; certainly he must look nearly as handsome as Mr. Finch did with a red face, and it was not every gentleman who could make such a claim.

They ended the dance rather less awkwardly than they had begun it, for Mr. Finch was somewhat more disposed now to talk, and Kitty, feeling sorry for him, was willing to talk over the empty silences.

The remainder of the ball did not offer many more events worthy of note. Kitty and Mr. Finch returned to their seats, where Kitty found Mr. Price waiting for her and Mr. Finch was greeted with a very bright, and rather significant, smile from Rosamond. Mary, seeing Kitty stand up with Mr. Price, informed Robert Hart that she would like him to ask her to dance now, and he obliged.

"How exciting it always is," Mrs. Bennet remarked to Mrs. Williams, "to see two of my girls standing up at once—and with such fine partners, of whom they are each so fond. I cannot decide whether to watch my Kitty with Mr. Price, or my Mary with Mr. Hart!"

Indeed the choice was not so difficult as she made it seem, for while Kitty and Mr. Price danced with all the ease of long experience, Mary and Robert danced rather clumsily; but Mary's object in dancing was only to watch her sister, and she cared less than ever for keeping to the proper steps of the dance. Mr. Price, meanwhile, offered Kitty several more of those charming compliments of which she was quickly growing so fond; but it is indelicate to pry too much into the conversations of young lovers, and so they need not be recorded here. Besides which, they were hardly any different from the compliments he had offered her before—not, of course, that Kitty minded overmuch.

The Bennets left the ball very late, though Mary complained of exhaustion long before they actually took their leave.

The ladies' spirits were high indeed as they bid farewell to their kind hosts. Mrs. Bennet was confident that each of her daughters had secured their respective suitors, and furthermore had all the satisfaction of knowing that she had boasted about at least one of these matches to nearly everybody she knew. Indeed, she felt certain that, by the morrow, the whole of Bath would be discussing the upcoming wedding between Mary Bennet and Robert Hart; and she wanted only a little more time before she spoke as explicitly of her hopes for Kitty and Mr. Price (for their acquaintance had come somewhat later and, she decided, there was no use in being hasty).

Kitty, upset over her argument with Rosamond, had nonetheless been delighted by all the time she had spent with Mr. Price, who had been more charming and agreeable tonight than he had ever been before. Furthermore, she had danced seven dances, an almost unheard of number in Meryton, and had had the glory of hearing one young lady demand of another, in a tone of sincere jealousy, the name of "that pretty girl in the blue silk, who has danced more dances tonight than I have all season." As the carriage sped home, she dreamt idly of making her appearance in London as the lovely Mrs. Price, and having everyone _there_ be envious of her.

Mary, despite her general loathing for ballrooms and assemblies, and despite the growing concern she felt over Kitty's affection for Mr. Price, could not be entirely dissatisfied with the evening. As the Harts had taken their leave, Robert had very kindly invited her to join his family at the Assembly Rooms on the following Wednesday, for a much-anticipated concert of Boccherini.


	9. Chapter 9

The following morning brought sunshine and a cool breeze from the north. Having been out so very late the night before, the ladies did not take their breakfast until mid-morning; and then it was a quiet affair, Mrs. Bennet insisting, as was her custom on the morning after a ball, that her daughters keep their noise and chatter at a minimum in deference to her tired nerves.

Kitty's spirits, however, could not be so easily restrained. Mr. Price had promised to walk with her into town, and every noise in the street made her heart flutter with anticipation. She imagined his step upon the stair outside at least a dozen times during breakfast, and upon retiring to the parlor immediately took up her favored place by the window. In this way she was able to tell of his coming a full half-minute before he was actually admitted to the house, and had ample time to give the appearance of working industriously on a piece of embroidery, so that he should not think she had been waiting for him.

Mrs. Bennet afforded the gentleman all the welcome of a favorite son, or rather son-in-law, for such indeed she had begun to fancy him; and his request for Miss Katherine's company on his walk to the Pump-room was greeted with lavish pleasure. "What an agreeable scheme!" the fond mother exclaimed, patting her hair and beaming. "It would indeed be a shame to spend this beautiful day indoors. Of course Kitty can be spared; go, go, my love, and enjoy yourself!"

Kitty readily promised to do so, and raced upstairs for her spencer. Mary, looking up from _Foundations of Natural Right_, was dismayed at the plain delight on her sister's face, and perceived that Rosamond's tête-à-tête with Kitty had not had its desired effect—had, perhaps, had the opposite. Concerned, she made the hurried decision to take matters into her own hands.

"Mr. Price," she said, closing her book, "may I join you on your walk to the Pump-room? Mamma is right—I should not like to waste this fine weather."

Mr. Price, as a gentleman, could not very well refuse; but he did not have to, for Mrs. Bennet immediately cut in,

"My dear, should you not prefer to read your book? Perhaps you may take it to the park this afternoon, and so enjoy the sunshine."

Her words were amiable, but her gaze was warning. The assiduous Mrs. Bennet was determined to prevent any unnecessary interaction between Mary and Mr. Price until Kitty was safely married to the gentleman, or at least steadfastly engaged. Mrs. Bennet was quite certain that if anything could drive the gentleman away from her younger daughter, it was prolonged exposure to the elder, with all her sermons and lectures; no lighthearted gentleman, with a house in Town and friends in Bath, could be pleased with such a tiresome sister-in-law. It was a good thing charming Mr. Wickham and cheerful Mr. Bingley had never spent much time with Mary, she felt, or things might have turned out quite differently.

But Mary was not to be so easily daunted. "Nay, Mamma, I should much prefer to go to the Pump-room, and I cannot go there alone—it is quite unheard of."

"You and I shall go later, then, my love. I am sure Mr. Price does not want to be shepherding the Miss Bennets all over Bath."

Mr. Price was obliged to protest that it was no trouble, though indeed his words lacked the ring of sincerity. Kitty came down then, in a cheerful green spencer, and happily took the arm he offered her, unaware of the danger threatening her idyllic morning stroll. Mary, bracing herself, played her final card.

"But I should like to go _now_, Mamma, and not later, for—" She took a breath. "For Mr. Hart said he would spend the morning in the Pump-room. I should not like to wait much longer, for fear of missing him, and if Mr. Price and Kitty are to walk there now, I do not see why I may not."

Her mother's narrowed eyes immediately widened. Mary had never before made such a clear statement of her interest in Robert Hart. "_Oh_," Mrs. Bennet said, significantly, with a knowing smile. "Oh, _well_, my dear, that is quite a different matter. Of course you may go, if Mr. Price does not mind."

"Mamma!" Kitty cried, horrified, even as Mr. Price claimed perfect happiness at the idea.

"Oh, hush, Kitty—you heard your sister, did you not? You are very kind, Mr. Price," Mrs. Bennet added, smiling at him. "Run and fetch your shawl, Mary, for this cold wind makes me nervous."

Mary hastened upstairs, ignoring her sister's glare as she did so.

It was a less merry party than anticipated which set out from Henry Street a few minutes later: the two Miss Bennets on either side of Mr. Price, one clinging to his left arm with an air of romantic abandon and the other holding his right in a very perfunctory manner, staring grimly ahead. The gentleman, who for his part had looked forward to a morning spent with the pleasant sister, could not entirely hide his disappointment at sharing it with the unpleasant one; but he rallied admirably, consoling himself with the thought that at least, once they reached the Pump-room, Miss Bennet could be politely foisted off on the unsuspecting Robert Hart.

(This, of course, was to prove his second disappointment of the day, for indeed Robert had never said anything of going to the Pump-room and was not to be found there, as Mary knew perfectly well. She disliked lying to her mother but, she reminded herself, in this case, the ends justified the means.)

"I hope you enjoyed the ball last night, Miss Bennet," Mr. Price said, in an attempt to make some conversation.

"I rarely enjoy balls and parties, sir," Mary replied tonelessly. "I prefer more rational amusements."

"Oh, Lord," Kitty interjected with a huff. "You must ignore her, Mr. Price, for I am sure she is only nervous about seeing _Robert_."

"Katherine," Mary said, in a warning tone, but her sister merely gave an impatient toss of the head.

"Why, Mary, you act as though it is some great secret! Mr. Price knows all about it, and he has ever since we were all at the Assembly Rooms together, for he could see it himself; and Mamma has been telling everyone besides."

"And what, pray, has she been telling them?" Mary demanded, her stomach sinking, though she thought she might be able to guess. Kitty laughed.

"Why, that you and Robert Hart are in love, and soon to be engaged."

Mary's face went very red, and Kitty laughed louder. "There, you see, Mr. Price, she is blushing!"

"And a very fetching blush it is," Mr. Price said smoothly, smiling at Mary. It was something of a relief to him, to see the stone-faced young lady reduced to a blushing girl. Mary, however, only narrowed her eyes.

"There is _no_ such attachment existing between Robert Hart and myself. I find him agreeable, and I believe he finds me so; but there has been no talk of love between us, and I doubt very much that there ever will be."

"That is what Jane once said about Mr. Bingley," Kitty giggled. "You may protest all you like, Mary, but I will not be fooled; I saw you dance with him last night."

"And I saw you dance with Mr. Carpenter. Will you claim that you are in love with _him_?"

"No indeed," Kitty said, with a coy glance at Mr. Price. "My thoughts on that matter tend in quite a different direction."

Mr. Price returned the glance with a certain amount of tenderness in his looks. Mary, seeing this, was disgruntled, no less because she herself had inadvertently provided the opportunity for the exchange. "When do you return to London, Mr. Price?" she asked pointedly.

"Not for some time, Miss Bennet," the gentleman answered, with great good humor. "I imagine I shall remain in Bath quite as long as you do."

"Then we are very fortunate," Mary muttered.

"Indeed we are," Kitty sighed happily. "For then I will always know that I have someone to dance with—will I not, Mr. Price?"

"You do me a great honor, Miss Katherine," Mr. Price replied. "Indeed I think it is the truest form of friendship, to find some other person who shares one's interests and passions, and is glad to serve forever as a dance-partner. Do you not agree, Miss Bennet?"

"I do not," Mary said stiffly. "True friendship is more than shared interests and dancing together; it is the meeting of true minds, and the ability to hold discussions of great worth and significance, in order to improve one's understanding. _That_ is a far rarer thing than you seem to think it, Mr. Price, and there is a very good quote from Mr. Fordyce on the subject: 'By entering into any company that tempts, engaging in any friendship that offers, or accepting of almost any creature that happens to court them, it is _well known_ what mischiefs—'"

"Lord! Mary! You will bore us all to death," Kitty cried. "Nobody has any mind to listen to your sermons, now or ever, and you would do well to put Mr. Fordyce aside, for I am sure we do not care what he has to say on _any_ subject."

"I remember an uncle once sending my sister a volume of _Sermons to Young Women_ as a Christmas gift," Mr. Price remarked. "It proved to be quite misguided as a gift, for I do not think she ever looked at it."

"That was a failure on her part," Mary said severely. "It is an important text, and most young ladies would do well to read it through at least once, if not several times."

"But you also think most young ladies would do well to give up dancing, and going to parties, and laughing and talking and meeting new people," Kitty said. "Really I think the world would be a very dull place indeed if you had your way, Mary, and I am happy to state that I have never read a word of Fordyce or any of his friends. Do you not agree, Mr. Price?"

"I am sure Miss Bennet has many very valuable ideas," Mr. Price answered diplomatically, offering Mary his most attractive smile as an appeasement. "But I confess, a world without dancing and laughing is not one in which I would choose to live. I am of a temperament that must be entertained."

"Then you, more than anyone, ought to restrain yourself," Mary urged, "and give up your entertainments in favor of quiet study and contemplation. As it is you can only live a very shallow life, without enjoying any of the benefits of deeper thought, for you will always be distracted by some triviality. You must train yourself to do without all those things that amuse you, in order to make full use of your time in the world."

"How dreary it all sounds," Kitty groaned. "Do you talk this way to Robert Hart, Mary? It is a wonder he ever fell in love with you."

"Robert Hart is not in love with me," Mary snapped, but she was ignored.

"Is this the sort of talk which would make _you_ fall in love with a lady, Mr. Price?" Kitty went on.

"I am afraid not," Mr. Price replied, laughing. "Perhaps it is a symptom of my shallowness, but I am of the firm conviction that wooing ought to be done with tender speeches rather than moral instructions."

"I am of your mind, sir," Kitty said, looking up at him through her lashes. "I much prefer pretty words to sermons."

"Then it is fortunate that I am not a clergyman," the gentleman replied, smiling down at her.

Mary sensed that she was again losing control of the conversation. "What _is_ your profession, Mr. Price?" she demanded. He turned to her as if he had forgotten her presence on his arm.

"I am fortunate enough to have the means to live quite independently," he answered, after a moment, "and to invest a certain amount of capital in various ventures in Town. I am sorry," he continued merrily, "that I cannot claim some profession more interesting and attractive to a young lady—I am no dashing soldier or sea-captain—or physician," he added slyly. Mary ignored this.

"Then how do you fill your time, sir?"

"Mary," Kitty hissed, "you are being very impolite just now."

"It is no trouble," Mr. Price assured her, laughing. "I am sure I seem very idle to your eyes, Miss Bennet, but I confess I often wonder where all my hours have gone. I visit friends, and attend parties and assemblies, and travel from London to Bath and back again; and somehow the time disappears. Is it not a strange thing?"

"Not very strange," Mary said dismissively. "It is easy to appear very busy—even to feel so—when in fact one is accomplishing nothing at all."

"_Mary_!" Kitty gasped. "You must forgive her, Mr. Price, for the nearer we draw to the Pump-room, the more unkind she will become. It is only because she is anxious about seeing Robert, and when she is anxious she grows irritable."

"I am not offended," Mr. Price answered. "Miss Bennet has offered me many very worthy criticisms, and I am aware that her judgment is quite useful, being the result of much thought and study."

Yet he quickly turned to Kitty, and said something to her in a lower voice that purposefully excluded her sister; and Mary gritted her teeth at the happy blush and pretty smile that bloomed on Kitty's face as a result of this private address. Mr. Price appeared quite determined to enjoy his time with Kitty, even if it meant putting up with Mary as well, and Kitty was clearly more than willing to accept the gentleman's attentions. Matters between them, Mary realized now, were more serious than she had thought; it was no surprise that Rosamond had seemingly been unable to coax Kitty away from her suitor; and while Mr. Price had said nothing very offensive or alarming, she still could not bring herself to approve of a gentleman who displayed such pride in his own shallowness.

But there was nothing to be done for the moment. Mr. Price was telling Kitty about a card-party he had attended once in Town, and she was responding with peals of laughter at every appropriate interval, and they seemed to have forgotten Mary. She could think of no way to reinsert herself into the conversation, nor could she think of anything to say that might definitively change Kitty's opinion of the gentleman. Indeed, thus far he had offered her nothing more than good humor and polite responses, even when he spoke in disagreement with her, and Mary was obliged to admit that—however frivolous and foolish he might be—Mr. Price was indeed remarkably charming.

They reached the Pump-room before very much longer, and Kitty, reading through the visitors' book, announced with some dismay that Robert Hart was not listed among those currently in the room.

"No, indeed?" Mary replied, not bothering to feign much disappointment. "He must have come and gone already."

"He has not been here today," Kitty said, her eyes still scanning the page. She looked up and regarded her sister with an accusatory glare. "In fact I remember him saying once that he works with his father on most mornings. It would have been quite strange to find him here, I think."

Mary made no response. The pretense had been for Mrs. Bennet's benefit, after all, and not her sister's. Kitty's attention returned to the book after another moment.

"Oh, but Mrs. Hart is here, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam with her. Perhaps you may sit with them, Mary, for I know you have no taste for promenading." She took Mr. Price's arm again and smiled up at him. "Shall we go in?"

Anne Hart and Constance Fitzwilliam were indeed seated together near the pump, talking agreeably over cups of mineral-water. Their pleasure at meeting the Miss Bennets and the following invitation to join them left Mary with no choice but to accept. She took her seat between the two married ladies, in a very ill humor indeed, as Kitty and Mr. Price politely claimed their intention of walking for a few minutes, and made their way toward the long line of ladies and gentleman who were strolling cheerfully up and down the room.

"Is that not Mr. Alexander Price with whom your sister is walking?" Mrs. Hart asked. Mary frowned.

"It is. Are you acquainted with him?"

"Only a little. Theodore knows him through a common acquaintance, but we do not meet very often."

"I have met him once or twice," Mrs. Fitzwilliam chimed in. "Only in company, and only briefly, but he strikes me as a very amiable sort of gentleman."

Mary, having no desire to take either of the women into her confidence regarding her feelings about Mr. Price, agreed that he was amiable indeed. At this point the conversation shifted to more general matters, and she was able to sit silently and watch her sister promenade as the ladies' chatter washed over her.

* * *

Kitty's first object, upon at last finding herself alone with Mr. Price, was to apologize for the presence of her sister on their morning walk.

"Mary is very disagreeable, I know," she sighed, "and it was very good of you to humor her as you did. I do wish Mamma hadn't told her she might come along with us; I am aware you had no wish to walk with her, and I am afraid she made everything very awkward."

"I confess that I had looked forward to a morning alone with you," Mr. Price admitted, "but certainly there was nothing to be done.—And now we are here together, and we may talk as we please, without any sisters or mothers to interfere." He smiled at her, a teasing smile that made his blue eyes crinkle, and Kitty could not help returning it.

"What will we talk about?" she asked.

"That is a question indeed. Have you any preference in the matter?"

"None at all, so long as it is something pleasant and agreeable, and has nothing to do with books or sermons."

"Then you do have a preference—but it is one that is easily met, and furthermore it is one I share. Perhaps we may begin simply. Have you had any news from home, or from your sisters?"

"Nothing to report," Kitty replied dismissively, but she embarked on a catalog nonetheless. "My friend Maria Lucas is to go to Hunsford after Michaelmas, for her sister is expecting again; I don't envy her, for Mr. Collins is tedious as anything and Lady Catherine is hardly pleasant company either, but Charlotte is all right. Miss Bingley is come to Netherfield for a month, and I am glad _I_ am not the one who must entertain her, but of course my sister Jane hardly minds her at all. Lydia writes that the weather is grown very cold up North, and she wishes very much to be invited down to Longbourn for the winter, with Wickham and all the children, but I am sure Papa will not allow it."

"Indeed? Why is that?"

"He—disapproves of her," Kitty said cautiously, wishing again that she had not mentioned Lydia. But then she looked very hard at Mr. Price, and there was nothing in his expression except curiosity and a hint of sympathy. She hesitated for a moment, and then decided to press onward—for, indeed, if she could not trust dear Mr. Price, then whom could she trust? "Lydia's marriage was very sudden, and it was something of a scandal, for she and Wickham ran away together to London. They never even had a wedding—not a proper one—because the important thing was that they were married, and it didn't matter how. That is what Lizzie says, anyway, and Papa says we mustn't talk about it, and we must never do as she does. _That_ I understand, for I know it is wrong to run away with a gentleman, but what I don't see is why it matters now. They are married and settled, and everything is all right."

"Perhaps your father fears that your own prospects might be damaged by your association with your sister," the gentleman suggested. "I imagine there are many men who might not wish to marry into such a family."

Kitty bit her lip. "Are _you_ such a man, Mr. Price?" she asked, doing her best to sound coy, but her voice betrayed her honest concern. Mr. Price fixed her with a steady gaze, and at length gave a little smile.

"Indeed I am not," he replied. "And any man who might pass you over for such a trivial reason, I regard as a fool. Your sister's wildness has nothing to do with _you_. Your virtues and merits are your own, and they are numerous. Besides," he went on, "it is slander indeed to suggest that the sister of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley is not a lady deserving of great admiration."

Kitty paid little attention to this last part. "What virtues and merits are those, sir?" she asked instead, grateful that the conversation had returned to comfortable ground.

"Shall I list them? The most obvious is your good nature. I know you are charitable because you danced last night with the tiresome Oliver Finch, though you could not have enjoyed it. You are generally cheerful and amiable, and enjoy a great variety of amusements. In addition, you dance exceedingly well and I have never seen you look anything but lovely, in any setting. I can continue, if you wish."

"No," Kitty laughed, blushing, "I think that will do for now. You will have another month or so to add to the list, if you like, and more if Papa says we can stay."

"Perhaps I ought to write these things down, and have a set of compliments ready on hand for whenever I may need them."

"You mustn't! That is what my cousin Mr. Collins does, and he is the dullest man in the world, and makes a fool of himself at every opportunity. No, I much prefer our conversations to be unpracticed."

"It is enjoyable, is it not? I must confess, my dear Miss Kitty," he went on, in a lower tone, "that I have found in your company a sort of—natural intimacy, which I have never before experienced. We seem to be exceedingly well-suited, if it is not too forward to say so."

"It may be forward," Kitty answered, very red now indeed, but smiling unabashedly, "but I do not mind."

"I am glad. Do you think we may spend more time together today? We could go to Sally Lunn's for a cup of tea, if you like."

"I would love to," Kitty replied warmly, but then caught sight of Mary again, sitting dourly with Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and frowned. "That is—if Mary will let us alone. I am sure she will not go back to Henry Street if I ask her, and I should not like her to come along. She will spoil everything."

Mr. Price followed her gaze with some concern. "Do you think it possible that she will stay here with her friends?"

"They are not her friends," was the swift reply. "Mary has no friends of her own, for she is so dull and sullen all the time. They are _my_ friends, mine and Mamma's. She will not stay with them."

"Perhaps she might like to invent some ailment, and go to visit Robert Hart at his father's practice," Mr. Price suggested, with a little smirk.

This seemed, to Kitty, quite unlikely; but it did provide her with some food for thought, and the matter of dispatching Mary did not seem nearly so difficult as it had a moment ago. "I have not been to Sally Lunn's since my first week in Bath," she remarked cheerfully. "That is where we first met—do you remember?"

Mr. Price affirmed that he did remember, and the pair were lost in happy reminisces for a moment, as they took a few more turns about the room. The Pump-room was scattered with ladies and gentlemen in groups and couples, promenading or sitting and talking along the walls. There was a long line at the pump, and Kitty recognized a few acquaintances. Shawls, spencers and light coats were in abundance; clearly Mrs. Bennet was not the only one concerned about the cool wind which had arrived this morning. Kitty wondered how the Pump-room must look during the Season; she longed to see it full and bustling, as Rosamond and Mrs. Hart claimed it so often was. She wondered if, after their marriage, Mr. Price could be induced to spend a Season or two in Bath. He could certainly afford it, she reasoned, and he appeared to like the city a great deal. Visions of herself in a fashionable spring _ensemble_, making a grand entrance at the Assembly Rooms on the arm of her handsome husband, filled her head, and she tucked her hand a little more securely into the crook of Mr. Price's elbow.

'But then perhaps,' she thought, 'after I have lived in London for a time, I won't care a thing anymore for Bath.'

The thought was an enticing one, and she turned to regard her companion with a brilliant smile. A comfortable silence had fallen on them, but she broke it now with a request that Mr. Price tell her more about life in London.

"What would you like to know?" he asked genially.

"Oh—anything," she replied. "I have never been, you know, or at least hardly ever, so anything you can say about it is fascinating to me. What do the ladies wear there?"

"I have no eye for the subtleties of ladies' dress," the gentleman laughed. "I have heard that Town-women are particularly fashionable, but I confess I can discern no great difference between the gowns I see here and the gowns I see there."

"Are the ladies there very beautiful?"

"No, indeed," he replied, "at least, if I am obliged to judge by my present company. I imagine there are some beauties in London, but they fall short of your own example."

"Compliments again," Kitty sighed, but she was beaming. "Is everybody there very bold and daring?—Do they say shocking things, and engage in outrageous behaviors?"

"Oh, yes. It is only one scandal after another, and a great deal of the social life there is based upon the exchange of gossip."

"I imagine there is some gossip about _you_," Kitty giggled, feeling very bold and daring indeed.

"If there is, I should be the first to admit its veracity," Mr. Price said, with a confidential air. "I am rather a wicked man, Miss Kitty; I feel it only fair to inform you of the fact."

Kitty was delightfully scandalized.

They returned to their friends after a few more turns, and spent some time engaged in pleasant conversation, mainly concerning the ball of the previous evening. Kitty was pleased that Mrs. Hart did not appear to share her sister-in-law's prejudice against Mr. Price, for she spoke to him very civilly and agreeably, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam was friendly and lively, as was her wont. Only Mary abstained from the conversation, sitting ramroad-straight against the back of her chair and looking very bored indeed, and not a little bit cross.

At length, however, Mrs. Fitzwilliam stood to take her leave, explaining that she had one or two errands to take care of in Milsom Street; and Mrs. Hart stood with her, stating an intention of stopping at Hart House. This was the advantage Kitty had hoped for, as it allowed her the opportunity to turn to Mary and exclaim,

"Why, is that not ideal, Mary? Anne is going to Hart House, and you may go with her—for you have not gone in some days, and I know you should not like to neglect your practice."

"I would not mind some company on the walk," Mrs. Hart admitted, giving Mary a little smile.

"You need not worry on my account, Mary," Kitty continued sweetly, "for Mr. Price will see me home directly."

This was of course precisely why Mary did worry on Kitty's account; but she was torn. It was true that she had not practiced for more than a week, weather and social engagements having kept her from Hart House, and she was afraid that she might already have suffered for it. Yet she was unwilling to allow her sister such an opportunity to fall further in love with the detestable Mr. Price. She wavered.

"Really, Mary," Kitty said after a moment, "you must make up your mind, for I am sure Anne wishes to go. Mamma will not miss you, and I am sure you would rather practice at Hart House than sit at home all day. It is so much more productive."

This was also true, and Mary, with a bad-tempered sigh, at last agreed. And so Mrs. Fitzwilliam set off for Milsom Street, and Mr. Price and Kitty not for Henry Street—as Mary believed—but in fact for Sally Lunn's, and Mary and Mrs. Hart for Hart House.

* * *

The walk was not a very long one, but Mary was glad to have Mrs. Hart by, for she had never made the trip to Hart House alone, and knew only that to get to Widcombe, one must at some point cross the Avon; and this being a very vague and unhelpful direction, Mrs. Hart's geographical self-assurance was comforting. Bath had not lost its mysteries for Mary—quite the opposite, in fact, for though she could find her way to Green Park and now Henrietta Park as well, everything else was beyond her ken. She still longed very much for the wide green fields of Hertfordshire, where one could see where one was going and how to get there.

They did not speak much as they walked. Mrs. Hart offered a comment on the cold weather, and Mary agreed with her, and that was the extent of their conversation for several minutes. At length, however, Mrs. Hart remarked,

"You seemed to enjoy yourself at the ball last night, Miss Bennet; at least, you and Robert looked to be quite deep in conversation when I saw you. I am glad that the two of you are getting along so well."

Mary's patience was already worn thin by the events of the morning, and so she might be forgiven for the irritable manner in which she replied, "I can assure you, Mrs. Hart, that I am not in love with your brother-in-law, nor is he with me, and we have no plans to marry, and I wish very much that people would stop saying such things for they are quite groundless."

Mrs. Hart looked at her askance. "You are very quick to refute a statement that has not been made."

"I apologize," Mary answered, her indignation ebbing at the honest surprise on Mrs. Hart's face. Now she merely felt ill-mannered and awkward.

"I meant only that you and Robert seem to be friends, and I believe it does him good, for he has not many female friends. It is difficult for a single gentleman to be _friends_ with a single lady in Bath, you know; everyone comes here to find a husband or a wife, and consequently every meeting between a man and a woman is watched very closely, no matter how innocent."

"So I have found," Mary remarked drily. "Kitty and Mr. Price have been teasing me quite incessantly; it is inconceivable to my sister that anybody could like a gentleman without being in love with him."

"Many people find it a strange idea."

"And now," Mary went on, feeling a strange relief in unburdening herself to a willing—or at least captive—listener, "I have learned that Mamma has been telling everyone of her acquaintance that we are soon to be engaged, though I am sure I have given her no provocation to do so. Indeed I have been very careful to correct her mistaken ideas at every opportunity, but she has not listened to me. She is fully confident of a marriage that will never happen, and I am sure she will be hurt and angry when we leave Bath in the fall, for she will claim that I have failed her by not marrying Robert Hart—never mind my _own_ wishes."

Anne smiled. "Your situation reminds me very much of my own, Miss Bennet, when I first came to Bath. My mother, too, was then very certain that I should become engaged to a certain gentleman, though my interest in him was purely friendly. She was furious when he announced his engagement to someone else, and even more furious when I freely gave him my blessing."

"But I do not think Robert is likely to become engaged to anyone else," Mary said hurriedly.

"No indeed," Anne laughed. "He is a worthy gentleman, and I love him very much as a younger brother, but I do not believe Robert would be happy to marry just now. He has two more years to do so, according to his sister's schedule, and I am sure he will want to take advantage of them."

"Miss Hart keeps a schedule?"

"Well—not a true one—but she did tell me once that she would like to have Robert engaged by the time they are twenty-two, so that she might pursue her own romances without an overprotective brother at her back."

"That is rather officious of her," Mary said sternly. "Marriage is a serious commitment, and ought not to be determined based upon schedules; one must not marry until one is quite ready, in thought and feeling, to do so. In fact, Robert and I were speaking of it just the other day—"

But she fell silent, feeling this line of thought was unwise. Mrs. Hart said lightly,

"I do not believe Rose is serious; she rarely is, when she says such things."

They walked on for a few minutes more, in a silence that was slightly more comfortable than it had been.

"Though I suppose," Mrs. Hart said after a time, in an unexpectedly teasing tone, "you would not _know_ if Robert were in love with you."

"I am sure I would be quite aware if that were the case," Mary said stiffly.

"Indeed you would not! He is a Hart, after all, and the entire family is quite adept at concealing their true feelings. Theo did not let on that he loved me until long after I had given up hope; and nobody can tell what Rose thinks about Lord Adlam, for all her smiles."

"I would hope that if such feelings were to arise, Mr. Hart would feel comfortable in expressing them to me."

"Is anybody comfortable in expressing such feelings?" Anne sighed, though she was smiling. "Love is the most private and painful of matters. Often it feels safest to suffer in silence, than to risk exposing oneself as vulnerable."

"But that is nonsensical. Surely it would be most beneficial for both parties if the matter were to be addressed clearly and logically, with each party providing a detailed description of their own feelings toward the other. In that way, any suffering might be reduced or even eliminated, if the second party is inclined to reciprocate. There can be no vulnerability where there is reason."

"You make it sound very rational," Anne laughed. "But you forget that love often impairs sense and reason, and such a logical discussion may be quite out of the question."

"It is when we separate our emotions from our reason, that we tempt disaster," Mary intoned. "Love is a serious matter, and should only be addressed seriously. A commitment made out of passion cannot act as a solid foundation upon which to build a future."

"Then," Anne said, "if you _were_ in love with Robert, I suppose you would tell him directly."

"Certainly. It is only fair, in order to maintain a relationship of equals, that each party knows where they stand with the other in emotional terms. Otherwise some hurt may be caused unconsciously, or some resentment may build."

"Miss Bennet," Mrs. Hart replied, smiling at her, "I wish very much to live in the world you have described. It seems a very sensible, reasonable place, and not nearly as untidy as the world around us."

Mary's mind, however, had taken another turn, and she asked abruptly, "Do _you_ think Robert Hart is in love with me?"

She was half-fearful of the response, for despite all her talk of logic and sense, she had no experience in the matter and could not put aside some worry that, if she were to be tested, she might find herself less levelheaded than she hoped. But Mrs. Hart said,

"I do not.—I do think that he likes you a great deal, and finds your company more interesting than that of any other young lady; but as to love, I should not say so. He has not that desperate look about him."

This was an honest relief to Mary, and she rebuked herself for the worry of a moment earlier. After all, she reasoned, _she_ was hardly the sort of young lady to have a gentleman secretly in love with her: she was not beautiful, and though she was accomplished, she had not the charm which might set her accomplishments off to greater advantage. Indeed, she was far too serious and plain to have inspired any clandestine devotion, and with Mrs. Hart's reassurance, she felt safe again in the knowledge that her own great romance—should it ever occur—would be perfectly overt, lucid and unadventurously conducted.

They arrived at Hart House before very much longer, and were greeted cheerfully by the Miss Harts, who were enjoying a cup of tea with Mr. Burke and his brother and sister. "What a merry party we shall be now," Miss Juliet said happily, offering the plate of cakes to Mary.

The party was indeed very merry, though Mary held herself somewhat apart from its merriment; she was, after all, not much acquainted with the Harts, and hardly at all with the Burkes, and their ease with one another was daunting. She was glad when the Burkes took their leave, laughing and calling many farewells as they did so. Their absence left the room a little quieter, at least, and Mary—who had thus far restrained herself, recognizing that everybody else wanted to talk—glanced longingly at the pianoforte.

"Go, go, if you like," Miss Rosamond laughed, catching Mary's look. "You will not disturb us."

Mary thanked her, and gratefully hurried to the instrument. Miss Rosamond had already set the collection of sheet music atop it, to Mary's delight. It had indeed been too long since she had played, and she spent a very brief time practicing her scales, before launching into a Scarlatti that was quite new to her, and rather difficult.

She was careful, however, to play quietly enough that the Harts might have some conversation. "Did you enjoy the ball, Rose?" was Mrs. Hart's first question, and her sister-in-law smiled.

"Very much! It is always agreeable to spend an evening surrounded by so many friends."

"And admirers," Juliet chimed in, grinning.

"As to that," Rosamond returned good-naturedly, "I believe it is more your territory than mine, little Juliet, for I daresay I spotted one or two gentlemen who looked quite devastated for love of you. You must take care not to look so charming at every assembly, or I will begin to grow envious. _I _am the elder sister, you know, and by rights I ought to receive the first proposal."

Juliet blushed, and rebuked her sister for teasing.

"But indeed it was an excellent ball: the music was lively, the food was appetizing and everybody danced."

"Is that your standard, then, of a good ball?" Mrs. Hart asked, laughing.

"Yes—and, of course, it ended when it ought to end, instead of running on nearly until dawn, the way some of these private balls tend to do. You know I cannot abide staying up all night, when I am too tired to dance any longer."

"Indeed, you are quite particular on that matter."

"_And_ the wine was good. And those, I believe, are all the components of a successful ball: good food, good music, and good wine, and a knowledge of its own mortality. No, don't laugh, Anne," though she was laughing herself, "I am quite serious. I have given this matter a great deal of thought."

"I can see you have, but I cannot say whether it does you credit," Anne teased.

"I should say not. I ought to have been thinking of more consequential matters—as I am sure Miss Bennet would agree," the young lady added mischievously, "if she were not so occupied with Mr. Scarlatti."

Miss Bennet was indeed too occupied to respond, but gave Miss Rosamond a small smile over her music. There was something rather heartening about the young lady's good spirits, and she could not bring herself to lecture as she otherwise might have done.

"And now we shall all be without entertainment," Anne said, though her tone was lighthearted, "at least until Wednesday, when I hope Theodore and I will see you all at the Assembly Rooms."

"Indeed you shall, but you must come to dine with us before then."

"But not tomorrow," Juliet interjected impishly, "for we have been invited to dine with the Adlams—all of us are to go, even me."

"Even I," her sister corrected gently.

"How pleasant," Anne said, rather cautiously. Rosamond looked at her and smiled.

"You need not be afraid of offending, Anne; I know what you wish to say."

"I would not be indelicate," was the reply, and Mary, sensing that she was the cause of all this discretion, bent her head slightly and focused her gaze on the keys before her, in hopes of seeming less obtrusive. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, Anne Hart give her a quick glance.

"His Lordship seems to have a marked preference for your company," the lady said. "Of that I am sure you are aware."

"Very much so; and so is everyone else, as Theo made plain last night. But if you intend to ask, has there been talk of anything more than _preference_—that I am afraid I shall not answer."

"I cannot understand your reticence, Rose," Juliet complained. "If _I_ had a titled lord in love with me, I should boast about it to everyone."

"Then you would be rather unwise," Anne laughed. "For it is always those who boast who are most unpleasantly surprised.—But it is unaccountable of you, Rosamond, for I am very much in the mood to hear some gossip, and you insist upon remaining ever prudent and secretive."

"Well," Rosamond replied cheerfully, "I should not like to be unpleasantly surprised."

From here the conversation shifted to other matters, and Mary, having missed several important keys during her eavesdropping, made a conscious effort to concentrate more carefully on her practice.

Mrs. Hart left before very much longer, bidding the sisters a very fond farewell, and the room fell silent, with the exception of Mary's playing. Juliet took up her writing-desk, which had lain abandoned beside her on the settee, and began to scrawl very busily; and Rosamond took up a book, and settled onto her favored chair near the pianoforte. They passed a half hour in this peaceful manner, though Mary's misstruck notes occasionally jarred the stillness (it was indeed a very difficult piece of music).

At length, however, Mary's sense of decorum hinted to her that she might be imposing, and she finished her practice with a final scale—for exercise—before replacing the music in its sheaf and standing.

"Are you going so soon?" Rosamond asked, looking up at her placidly. "I was enjoying that; you were growing much more comfortable with the piece near the end."

"Thank you, but I do not wish to impose. I am sure you have other things to do."

"Well, but I hope you begin your practice with that piece next time, for I cannot wait to hear it once you have mastered it." Rosamond stood to show her out. "Will we see you at the Assembly Rooms on Wednesday? Robert said he had invited you."

"Yes—that is—I hope so. I have not yet mentioned the matter to my mother."

"I am sure she will give her permission," Rosamond said, rather mischievously, as they walked to the vestibule. "She seems eager for you to spend time with us."

Mary gave Miss Hart a glance, but the lady had directed her own gaze to the hallway behind them. "Where are you going, Robert?" she called, and Mary's heart gave a quick stutter as she turned to see the younger Mr. Hart sloping toward them, pulling on a light coat as he did so.

"I have a call in town—hello, Miss Bennet," he said, with a bow. Mary curtsied awkwardly. "I did not know you were here."

"Miss Bennet came to practice."

"Yes, but I am going home now."

"To Henry Street? That is convenient, for my appointment is in Kingston Road. It joins Henry Street," he explained, with a little laugh, at Mary's look of incomprehension. "Just beyond your door, in fact. Shall we walk together?"

Mary agreed with pleasure, and after a final farewell from Miss Hart, they set out from Widcombe together.

* * *

It was rather uncomfortable, after spending the morning deflecting accusations about her romantic affairs, to be faced with the gentleman whose name had been so unjustly connected to hers; but Mary, seeing in Robert Hart no sign of the "desperate look" Mrs. Hart had mentioned, nor any other signifiers that his feelings ran deeper than friendship, was soon able to relax and enjoy his company. After all, she thought, it did not matter how others interpreted their relationship, so long as its nature was perfectly clear to the two of them.

Yet she could not bring herself to mention to Robert how her mother had begun boasting of their marriage. She supposed it would have been most reasonable to offer him some warning, but she did not think she could mention the matter without feeling very foolish indeed.

"Do you think the cold weather will stay?" she asked instead. Robert looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"The weather, Miss Bennet? I seem to recall your rejoicing that our friendship had allowed us to move beyond such basic pleasantries. Would you not rather discuss some theory or philosophy—perhaps _Foundations of Natural Right_?"

"Indeed I was reading it only this morning," Mary said. "But I had to put it down, in order to walk with my sister to the Pump-room."

"Forgoing study for pleasure?"

"Certainly not—forgoing study for duty. My sister was to be escorted by Mr. Price, and I did not think it proper for them to be walking alone together."

"But look now, Miss Bennet, you and I are walking alone together, and you seem quite unconcerned."

Mary waved an impatient hand. "That is a different matter. _You_ are not a shallow coxcomb who insists on simpering to me and plying me with false smiles, and _I_ am not a silly girl who hangs on your every word with undeserved devotion."

The gentleman gave a startled laugh. "You are very severe upon your sister, my friend, and even more so upon her escort."

"It is warranted, I assure you," Mary said bad-naturedly.

"How has Mr. Price incurred your displeasure?"

"As I said: by being shallow, and far too agreeable, and encouraging my sister in her romantic foolishness. I cannot imagine his intentions toward her are anything good, and so it was vital that I act as chaperone this morning—for I would not have abandoned _Foundations of Natural Right_ if I did not deem it very necessary. I find it too fascinating."

This last was an untruth, for indeed Mary had not even managed to read beyond the first pages. The text was very dense, and while such a book might not have bothered her in Hertfordshire, there seemed to be too many other things to think about in Bath and she could not bring herself to focus upon the theory. Mr. Hart, however, replied mildly,

"Do you? I find it very dull, though that is no surprise; I knew it would be, when I bought it."

"Then why did you buy it?" Mary asked, with a little laugh despite herself.

"I suppose because I thought it fit."

"I do not take your meaning."

"Well, I mean that I am the sort of person who would read such a book, and the book is of the sort that a person like myself would read. Do you see?"

"I confess I do not."

"Do you not think, Miss Bennet, that very often, people like you and I—and you may interpret that phrase however you please—do such things simply because it seems as though we should? It is the sort of thing everyone would expect us to do, and so we do it: reading difficult texts, disapproving of balls and assemblies, holding very serious conversations."

"Then you believe that we present a false front to the world, and are dishonest about our true feelings; we say whatever will please those in front of us." Mary frowned at him. "That is unfair."

"But it is not what I mean. There is no dishonesty involved. We simply cannot always separate ourselves from others' perceptions, and so we read books that are boring and do our best not to enjoy ourselves, because it is easier than contradicting what is already thought of us."

"That is laziness, sir."

"Perhaps, but a very innocuous form. Imagine, Miss Bennet, if you were to laugh and smile at a ball, and dance seven dances—you would face astonishment from all quarters, and would be pressed to explain yourself, and your friends would be very smug to find that you were not so different from them, and would tease you. Is not simpler to behave as you always have?"

"But I should never dance seven dances."

"Well, then," Robert said, with a little smile, "let us take a different example. You complained when Rosamond asked you to read _The Italian_, and made a great show of disapproval, but I believe you were interested in it—and you certainly had more to say about that book than the one you are reading now. Why did you not simply admit that you enjoyed reading it, though it is a novel?"

Mary could think of no reply.

"I will tell you, Miss Bennet," her friend continued, smiling at her. "It is because you are not the sort of person who reads novels. You are the sort of person who reads _Foundations of Natural Right_—or that is how you are thought of."

"Perhaps you have chosen ill in becoming a physician," Mary exclaimed, after a long pause. "Perhaps you should have followed in your brother's footsteps, rather than your father's, and become a lawyer."

Robert laughed. "Certainly not. I cannot speak at such impressive length as Theo can; this conversation alone has quite exhausted me."

"But do you mean to say, then, that my disapproval of Mr. Price is also an affectation?" Mary pressed. "For that is what you are suggesting: that 'people like you and I' possess an unconscious affectation."

"In that, we are no different than anyone else," Robert said. "Everyone wears a certain mask. Ours is merely that of staid intellectual."

"I suppose it is preferable to some others," Mary agreed drily.

"Indeed; imagine if we were obliged to be agreeable and sociable, and have dull pleasant conversations with everyone.—As to Mr. Price, Miss Bennet, I really believe that you do not like him. You speak of him with a certain contempt, without rationalizing your opinion of him in moral or theoretical terms, and so your words ring very true."

"That is a relief. I should hate for you to think me false in all things."

They had reached Kingston Road by this point, having come along Manvers Street, and Robert turned now to face her. "I do not think you false at all, Miss Bennet," he said, smiling at her. "I merely think you human."

Mary was again left without a reply. She looked at him for a long moment, and tentatively returned his smile.

"Can you find your way from here? Henry Street is the next cross street"—he pointed with a long arm—"and you will take a left there, and you will very soon come upon your doorstep."

"Thank you; I believe I shall manage."

"I have enjoyed our walk, and I hope I have not offended you mortally."

"No," Mary said, "not at all," and she found that she meant it, to her surprise.

"That is good. And I will see you on Wednesday, for I hope you have not forgotten our engagement."

His choice of words made them both blush, and he gave a little cough. "For the concert, I mean. I am looking forward to it very much."

"Yes, I will ask Mamma directly. I am sure she will agree."

They stood in silence for a moment more. "Well," Robert said finally, giving a little bow, "my patient awaits. Goodbye, Miss Bennet, and give my compliments to your family."

Mary curtsied, and bid him farewell.


	10. Chapter 10

Tea at Sally Lunn's had left Kitty with a warm glow in her breast as Mr. Price escorted her back to Henry Street. They were rather later than she had expected, having walked up to the North Parade and loitered for a time on the bridge, watching the passerby along the streets and the small boats along the river—but the afternoon had been so very agreeable that she could not bring herself to care overmuch.

Mr. Price appeared to share her feelings, for as they walked he remarked genially, "This is the pleasantest afternoon I have spent in a very long while. I do hope you will not object to my company again—perhaps on Wednesday morning? We might go up to Milsom Street, that you may better instruct me in the modes of the most current fashions."

"That I shall not do," Kitty laughed, "for then when I ask you if London women are the most fashionable, you will know well enough to say yes, and that will be a sore disappointment to me."

"Indeed, my dear Miss Kitty, I promise that I shall only ever judge fashion by your own standard—you are the most stylish girl in the world, as far as I am concerned."

"Today I am," Kitty agreed teasingly, "for this is a new dress, and I am very proud of it. But you would not like me so much if we were at Longbourn, for there I should be wearing some old cast-off of Jane's or Lizzie's, and I would look a sorry sight indeed."

"I cannot believe it. I imagine you would adorn a frock wrought of cotton feed-sacks with all the grace and elegance of a queen."

"A queen! Oh no, sir—say a princess, at best, for when I think of a queen I think of some austere old woman in a dark chamber somewhere, frowning at everybody and making herself disagreeable. I should not like to be thought of so."

"What do you think of when you think of a princess?"

"Why, fairy-tales, of course," Kitty exclaimed, looking up at him through her lashes. "I think of Cinderella, from the Perrault, who is so lovely and amiable, and maintains her sweet nature though she is poor and lives very far out in the country; and everybody adores her, unless they are bad themselves. And at the end of course she marries the Prince."

Mr. Price smiled down at her. "Then I must indeed call you a princess rather than a queen, for it is a much preferable image, and certainly offers a truer likeness of Kitty Bennet than my earlier analogy."

Kitty was pleased by this.

"But I must confess," Mr. Price went on, "Cinderella is not my favorite tale in the book."

"And which is your favorite? Pray do not say Bluebeard, or I shall think you wicked indeed."

"Certainly not!" The gentleman gave a little shudder. "I could never abide tales of blood and murder. I much preferred Master Cat—or Puss in Boots, if you prefer."

Kitty smiled. "That is a tale which Mary always found objectionable, for Master Cat was so deceitful. Mary always thought the princess should not have married the false marquis, but should instead have delivered him a stern lecture on the virtues of truthfulness."

"But Master Cat only deceived with the best intentions. And if a cat, of all creatures, may not be allowed some clever and virtuous dishonesty," Mr. Price added, feigning seriousness, "then I fear we live in a dull world indeed, and I wash my hands of it."

"Now you are only speaking nonsense," Kitty giggled, "and besides, I told you before that I did _not_ wish to discuss books."

"No, of course not; for we are not Mary Bennet and Robert Hart. Shall we return to our original subject? This has been a most enjoyable afternoon, and I should like to repeat the experience sometime very soon—on Wednesday, if you are amenable to the idea."

"I am very _amenable_," Kitty replied gladly. "Will you come in?"

They had by now reached Henry Street, and Kitty caught a glimpse of her mother's eager face at the sitting-room window, before the curtains fell back into their original position. Mr. Price hesitated for a moment on the steps, but regretfully shook his head.

"I should not like to trespass on your time any more than I already have, Miss Kitty," he said, "for I fear you shall grow tired of my company."

He was unswayed by Kitty's protests, and merely offered her a wide smile and a low bow. "Do give my fondest regards to your mother and sister," he said, "and"—here with a gentle and unexpected press to her hand, "pray do not forget our engagement. I cannot go to Milsom Street alone; I should be ashamed to show my face." He gave a teasing grin, and his blue eyes glinted in the afternoon sunlight.

Kitty thought privately that a gentleman with such a face need never be ashamed to show it, but she only curtsied, assuring him that she should be all anticipation until their next meeting. He bowed again, and departed. She stood on the step watching him until he had turned the corner onto Stall Street, before at last giving a happy sigh and going inside.

Kitty's happiness must have been amplified in her features, for Mrs. Bennet—who was in the vestibule before the front door had closed—gripped her daughter's hands tightly and cried joyfully, "Is it done? Has he proposed?"

"Mamma!" Kitty exclaimed, disentangling herself with a giggle. "Certainly it is still too early for _that_; but he has said that this was the pleasantest afternoon of his life."

"That I might have guessed, for you are late in returning, yet it gives me joy to hear it said. But why did he not come in?"

Kitty waved an impatient hand, divesting herself of her spencer, gloves and bonnet, and fairly dancing into the sitting-room. "He said only that he should not like me to grow tired of him; but he will come again on Wednesday to walk with me. Oh, Mamma," she burst out, flinging herself onto the settee, "he is the most amiable man in the world, and he likes me very much—I can see that already!"

Mrs. Bennet clucked affectionately over her daughter. "I am glad to hear you say so, my love; I am glad you are enjoying yourself. It is all I have hoped for, you know, to see you married to some handsome agreeable gentleman with a house of his own in Town." She tucked one of Kitty's curls behind her ear, then gave a sudden start. "But where is your sister? Did she see Robert Hart at the Pump-room as she hoped?"

"Robert Hart was never at the Pump-room," Kitty sighed. "I am sure Mary only walked with us in order to vex us. I wish you had not let her go along."

"I am sorry, my sweet; but it seems to have done no harm." Mrs. Bennet winked. "Have you left her at the Pump-room?"

"No indeed. We met Mrs. Hart there, and she was going to walk to Hart House, and I thought," Kitty continued, over her mother's delighted intake of breath, "that it might be best of all if Mary were to go with her, and practice her scales."

"And perhaps she has seen Robert Hart there! Oh, my dear, you are so very good: not only to court your own gentleman, but to assist your sister in courting hers. I imagine you should do quite well, as I have, if you had five daughters thrust upon you and needed to find them all husbands. I imagine that should not puzzle _you_ for an instant."

"I am not courting Mr. Price, Mamma," Kitty giggled. "_He_ is courting _me_."

"That is how the gentlemen understand it, my love," Mrs. Bennet said shrewdly. "But indeed it is clear enough that nothing would ever be done about the matter if we ladies did not take some steps of our own.—And even if Mary has not seen Robert Hart, you know (though I am sure she has), she will at least have spent the afternoon with Miss Hart, and that is good. I should like very much for Miss Hart to think well of Mary, for I am sure the gentleman shall never make a proposal without the approval of his sister. And Miss Hart is such an amiable young lady besides! She is so well-mannered; you would never know her to be only the daughter of a physician. Not," she added conscientiously, in deference to the absent Robert Hart, "that there is anything ill to be said of a physician; a most respectable trade, in my opinion."

Kitty did not reply to this. In her delight at the afternoon spent with Mr. Price, she had quite forgotten about her disagreement with Rosamond. It gave her some pain, to hear her mother speak so kindly of that young lady when she herself was not certain whether she retained the right to think of Miss Hart as her particular friend. Her words to Rosamond came rushing back to her: _I am not like _some_ young ladies who are attracted to wealth and titles only_… Kitty realized now, with a guilty start, that she had been rather callous, and she suddenly wished for a glimpse of Rosamond's serene smile.

But then she recalled her friend's retort—_Would you be so angry with me now if you were not yourself uncertain of Mr. Price's intentions?_—and her stomach gave another twist, mostly in anger but also in doubt. Certainly there was no reason _now_ to worry that Mr. Price was insincere; his words on the topic of Lydia's marriage had put paid to that fear, and he had been nothing but honorable and gentlemanly all the afternoon. There was no hint of dissolution or duplicity in him. Yet she could not help thinking that Rosamond's distaste for Mr. Price seemed rather uncharacteristic of her friend.

Kitty shook her head to clear it. These reflections were helping nothing, she told herself sternly. Her heart told her that Mr. Price was to be trusted, that indeed he was the gentleman around whom all her half-formed, quixotic hopes had long been built, and by whose presence they were now made solid and real. Her own mother heartily approved of the gentleman, and saw no ill in him, and therefore Rose's interference, though well-meant, was in fact quite misguided. Even Rosamond Hart, she thought, a little scornfully, even beautiful, good-natured, clever Rosamond Hart with her gold hair and her winsome manner, was capable of error. One had only to look at the Lord Adlam-Oliver Finch situation for proof of _that_.

"…shall never have a house in Town, I suppose," Mrs. Bennet was saying, Kitty's inattention having gone quite unnoticed, "but I am sure you will invite her to visit you very often, will you not, my love? And I am sure Lizzie will have her to Pemberley, for she did seem to enjoy herself there and her society will do wonders to draw out poor Miss Darcy—she is of that age when she ought to be comfortable in society. Then of course we shall all come to Bath whenever we please, especially during the Season, and she will be able to help us find good lodgings, for _that_ is where familiarity with the city is truly an advantage. And I daresay she will know it pretty well by then."

The young lady to whom Mrs Bennet was referring was unclear. Kitty could not imagine that her mother was still talking about Rosamond, for it was rare that she afforded much of her attention or conversation to young ladies other than her own daughters; but Kitty also could not imagine that Mary's presence at Pemberley would be at all helpful or even agreeable to 'poor Miss Darcy' when it came to facing society. Of course it was possible that a third young lady had at some point been introduced—but if so, her identity was to remain a mystery, for at that moment the maid came in and announced "Mr. Finch."

"Mr. Finch?" Mrs. Bennet hissed, all astonishment. "What in the world do we want with Mr. Finch? Sit up straight, Kitty—" and then Oliver Finch had stepped into the room, a preemptive blush painting his handsome features.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Finch," Mrs. Bennet said graciously, as the gentleman bowed. "This is an unexpected pleasure!"

Mr. Finch seemed to wince a bit at the word "unexpected," and met their eyes. "I do hope I am not disturbing you," he said quietly. "But I had a moment in between my parish errands—and Miss Katherine was good enough to invite me to call—"

Kitty had rather forgotten her goodness on that score. Indeed, the parts of the evening unrelated to Mr. Price had been quite relegated to the back of her mind. But, "And it is so fortunate you have come now," she said warmly, her heart touched by the gentleman's awkwardness, "for Mamma and I were just discussing the ball last night, and saying how much we should like to thank you for inviting us. Is not that so, Mamma?"

"Indeed it is," Mrs. Bennet agreed. "Will you sit, sir?"

Mr. Finch gratefully accepted the invitation, but very quickly the room fell into what Kitty by now recognized as a common defect of Mr. Finch's society—that is to say, a rather uncomfortable silence.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet said, after a moment, "we should like to thank you again for your invitation, Mr. Finch, and compliment you on a most wonderful evening."

"I am glad that you enjoyed yourself, but the wonders of the evening are due more to my sisters' efforts than to my own," Mr. Finch demurred.

"Then they are to be praised indeed," Mrs. Bennet said with a smile.

"Yes, and you ought to tell them to host many more balls, for I daresay that was the best one I have attended in Bath," Kitty agreed with a giggle.

"I shall certainly pass your compliments along."

There was another long silence.

"Did you enjoy yourself, sir?" Mrs. Bennet asked. "I understand these events are often more trying to the hosts than to the guests."

"Oh, I enjoyed myself very much."

"I saw you dancing with Miss Hart," Mrs. Bennet said after another long moment, oblivious to Kitty's sudden alarm. "You are a fine dancer, sir, and certainly your partner did you no discredit. Such a handsome couple!—Whatever are you shaking your head at, Kitty?"

"Nothing," Kitty mumbled, as Mr. Finch turned his dark eyes on her. There was a seriousness in his gaze that she found rather discomfiting; it was quite unlike the way Mr. Price looked at her.

"Now then," Mrs. Bennet prompted blithely, breaking another silence, "how long have you been acquainted with Miss Hart?"

"For some time now. I am fortunate to count her two brothers as excellent friends."

"And the lady herself, sir?" Mrs. Bennet hinted, a benevolent smile on her face. Mr. Finch looked down at his hands.

"I am fortunate to count her as a friend, as well. Very fortunate," he added softly, with a fond little smile that quickly disappeared. There was another stretch of silence.

"I have often thought privately," Mrs. Bennet said finally, "that there is no girl in Bath so generally engaging as Rosamond Hart. She has a smile for everybody, and a very pleasant way about her that one cannot help but like."

"Indeed," Mr. Finch agreed, "Miss Hart is exceedingly amiable, and her kindness does her credit."

"And of course she is _so_ handsome," Mrs. Bennet added knowingly. "I told my girls myself, when we arrived, that it would be best for them if Miss Hart were to marry immediately, for certainly no man should look at my daughters with _her_ in the room."

"Mamma!" Kitty exclaimed, feeling the impropriety of this remark.

"I believe you do your daughters some discredit there, Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Finch said, his face quite red now indeed. Mrs. Bennet appeared not to hear, but Kitty smiled at him.

"And of course the entire family is so very agreeable—nothing objectionable there. For you must know, sir," Mrs. Bennet winked, "that if there _were_ anything objectionable about the Hart family, _I_ should certainly have a right to object."

"I am afraid I do not take your meaning, ma'am."

"We live in anticipation of a certain happy announcement from that quarter. No, not Kitty," this was in response to the puzzled glance Mr. Finch afforded in her direction, "but my other daughter. I have reason to suspect that our name will quite soon be joined to the Harts'. And of course, sir, we all look forward to the day when _you_ make a similar announcement, for we may then count the Finches among our extended family. It will be good for my Mary to have a sister-in-law so close—it is no great distance from Larkhall to Widcombe."

"Mamma," Kitty pressed, her embarrassment threatening to swallow her whole, "Mr. Finch can have no interest in our gossip."

"Oh, my dear, there is no harm in discussing these things among friends! We all know very well what we are about."

Kitty felt quite strongly that this was untrue, for Mr. Finch's features betrayed all his surprise and confusion—and, she fancied, pain. "When do you move to Larkhall, sir?" she asked desperately.

"It should not be very long now," Mr. Finch replied, in obvious relief at the change in subject. "There are still one or two things that must be done to the curate's lodgings before I may take residence; I am afraid the former occupant left it in rather a sorry state."

"Then it is all the more necessary that you should marry soon, sir," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed cheerfully. "These matters of décor and arrangement so often require a lady's touch, do you not agree?"

"I could not say, ma'am." Mr. Finch looked rather alarmed, as well as embarrassed.

"Well, I imagine you shall feel it so very shortly, for you have lived with a mother and sisters all your life. It is a different thing entirely to do without a female presence in the home. Miss Hart, I understand, has kept house for her father ever since her elder sister married, and I daresay Hart House is the most neatly managed home I have seen in Bath. I cannot see what Dr. Hart will do once _she_ marries and goes away—but then," she added significantly, "a father's loss is a husband's gain, is it not? I daresay Mr. Bennet will find out the truth of _that_ pretty soon."

Mr. Finch, his eyes wide, struggled for a reply. "You forget, Mamma," Kitty cut in swiftly, her face by now as red as the gentleman's, "that Dr. Hart has another daughter to look after him.—And do you like your new parish, Mr. Finch? I mean do you find the parishioners friendly, and the neighborhood agreeable?"

"Everyone there has been exceedingly welcoming."

"The rector must be glad to have you, I imagine."

"Yes, I like to think I am helpful to him."

Another silence fell. Kitty was doing her best to think of another topic to pursue, which would not relate at all to Rosamond Hart; Mrs. Bennet was doing her best to think of a way to reintroduce Rosamond Hart into the present conversation, and in so doing eventually steer the talk back to her happy insinuations about Rosamond's brother. Mr. Finch was looking about the room in apparent discomfort. The silence stretched painfully.

It was a great relief to at least two of them when the door opened and Mary came in, flushed with the exercise of her walk—though of course, under ordinary circumstances, Mary's entrance into any room would hardly have had such an effect. "Mary!" Kitty cried gladly, and Mary, caught off guard by her sister's exclamation and by the unexpected presence of Mr. Finch in the high-backed chair by the fireplace, dropped into an ungainly curtsy and murmured her greetings.

"My daughter has just come from Hart House," Mrs. Bennet said, beaming at the daughter in question for offering such an opportunity, and Kitty gave a little inward groan. "Did you see Mr. Hart, Mary?"

"I did," Mary affirmed, though with some reluctance. "He walked with me to Kingston Road."

"To Kingston Road! Why did he not walk all the way with you, and come in to sit? We might have been a very agreeable party then, for his good friend Mr. Finch is here, as you see. Indeed," she said, with another wink at Mr. Finch, "with Mr. Hart and Mr. Finch sitting here together, we might even have been called a _family_ party—or a very-soon-to-be-family party."

Her meaning was quite lost on Mary, though Kitty flinched and Mr. Finch's brow furrowed. "I understand Mr. Hart was to see a patient," Mary answered, taking the seat beside Kitty on the settee.

"Oh, well, that is quite another matter, and I suppose it was unavoidable. I am not one of those ladies," Mrs. Bennet said to Mr. Finch, "who is ashamed to have her daughters connected with gentlemen who are in the trades; no indeed, though my two eldest have married so very high. I think there is great virtue in work, and a gentleman with an occupation is a worthy one. I should be proud to have a physician in the family" (Mary frowned) "just as I should have been glad to see any of my girls marry their cousin Mr. Collins—he has the parish at Hunsford, in Kent."

Kitty was helpless to suppress a little shudder of distaste for Mr. Collins.

"I am glad to hear it," Mr. Finch replied quietly, though the confusion had not left his face.

"Dr. Hart, you know, is so very respected here in Bath, and knows everybody; and I understand his son is earning an excellent reputation of his own. There can be no shame in an acquaintance with such a highly regarded family, however many Darcys and Bingleys we can count among our relations."

The gentleman hesitated for a moment. "And, of course," he said at last, "Dr. Hart is a good man: compassionate, honest and intelligent. And he has raised his children to share his virtues. There can never be shame in acquaintance with such a family, whatever their reputation or connections."

It was the longest speech any of them had ever heard from the reticent Mr. Finch, and they sat in surprised silence. "Yes," Mrs. Bennet said faintly, at last, though she did not sound entirely convinced.

"I am fully of your mind, sir," Mary said warmly. "I find that our present society places too much emphasis upon _exterior_ virtues, and not enough upon the inner self. There are many villains who speak well and are popular in their own circle; too often the word 'gentleman' is undeserved, or taken to mean something it does not."

"Oh, hush, Mary," Mrs. Bennet said irritably. "We are in no mood for your sermons—begging your pardon, Mr. Finch," she added hastily, clearly having forgotten the gentleman's occupation.

The party spent a few more minutes in polite, if stilted, conversation; but at last Mr. Finch rose and took his leave, claiming further parish duties.

"Pray do call again, Mr. Finch," Mrs. Bennet said, more out of courtesy than actual desire. "This has been most agreeable."

The gentleman thanked her diffidently, before bowing again and hastening away to Larkhall.

The ladies sat in perplexed silence for some minutes after his departure. "What does he mean by calling here?" Mrs. Bennet demanded at last. "_We_ are nothing to him; he ought to be at Hart House! What can he want with us?"

"I imagine he only wanted to be polite, Mamma," Kitty replied, though the question nagged at her as well. "I did invite him to call on us."

"Well," Mrs. Bennet huffed, "I hope he shall not take to doing so very often. What an awkward visit this has been! I am glad he is not to marry one of _my_ girls; I could not bear a son-in-law of such an unsociable disposition, who has no conversation or wit and nothing to recommend him but basic politeness and a handsome face. Let the Harts suffer through his silences at every family gathering!"

"I like him very much," Mary interjected. "One can tell that there is true depth of thought behind the silence." Kitty rolled her eyes. "Besides," the elder sister continued, "Mr. Darcy is hardly any friendlier, Mamma, and you do not seem to mind _him_."

"That is quite another matter," Mrs. Bennet said firmly. "When a gentleman has ten thousand a year, and is married to one of my daughters, he may be as unsociable as he pleases."

Kitty could not repress a giggle at this, and Mr. Finch's odd visit was quite forgotten.

"Now, Mary," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, turning to more crucial matters, "you must give us all the news from Hart House."

"What news can you expect me to give, Mamma?" Mary said stiffly. "We saw the Harts only yesterday. Very little can have happened in twenty-four hours that you will find noteworthy."

"You know very well what I mean, Miss Mary," her mother replied. "What of your walk with Robert Hart? Did he give you his arm, as a gentleman ought? Was he agreeable? Did you walk around one of the parks?"

"Did he flirt with you?" Kitty snickered.

"Certainly not," Mary snapped. "We walked only from Hart House to Kingston Road, for as I told you, he had an appointment. He was very agreeable, and we enjoyed a fascinating discussion of the differences between public behavior and the true self."

"Lord," Kitty groaned, "it sounds frightful. I am glad I decided not to fall in love with him."

"As am I," Mary replied spitefully, "for you would have found yourself quite out of your intellectual depth."

Kitty responded to this with a sharp pinch to her sister's arm. Mary leapt away from her with an undignified little shriek, and a battle might have begun, of the sort not seen between the Bennet sisters since their ride into Bath, but Mrs. Bennet was not to be distracted.

"Mary," she cried over the noise of the argument, "when are you to see him again?"

"Oh," Mary answered, as though recalling something. "As to that, Mamma, he has invited me to attend another concert with his family, on Wednesday evening."

"At the Assembly Rooms?" Mrs. Bennet gasped, as though the very name implied something very significant.

"Yes. It is a concert of Boccherini," Mary replied, and for the first time a smile crept onto her face. Mrs. Bennet gave another gasp, though whether the concert was of Boccherini or Haydn or Mozart would have made no difference to her.

"But of course, child, you must go! An entire evening with Robert Hart and all his family!"

"Do you mean," Kitty asked, startled, "that only _you_ are invited?"

There was nothing very improper in this that she could see, of course; for it was a public concert and the entire family was to attend together. Yet she could not help being rather hurt that _she_ had not been invited.

"This is a compliment to you, my love, you know; he is showing you particular consideration," Mrs. Bennet was saying. "And of course it is a proof that his family wishes to know you better—certainly we all know where _that_ will lead!"

"You are mistaken, Mamma," Mary replied tiredly. "Mr. Hart is aware that I enjoy music and his father happens to have seats reserved at a concert. It is not a difficult leap of reason. He is showing me a kindness, certainly, but there is nothing so telling in that."

"I think it rather impolite, to invite one sister and not the other," Kitty said crossly. "Is that not rather impolite, Mamma?"

Mrs. Bennet waved an impatient hand. "Why should you be invited? Robert Hart is not in love with _you_, and they are not obliged to reserve seats for everybody of their acquaintance."

"You do not even like concerts," Mary said accusingly.

"But I am Rosamond's friend!" Kitty cried. _Or I was_, she added silently. Certainly her exclusion from the concert was proof that Rosamond was still angry with her. Her stomach churned uncomfortably.

"This is the best we might have hoped for!" Mrs. Bennet exalted. "You will spend an entire evening with him, my love, and I am sure he will make himself very agreeable and pay you every attention. And everybody in Bath will see you there with his family and make the obvious conclusion. I shall have two daughters married by Michaelmas!"

"I am not going to marry him," Mary said loudly, but Mrs. Bennet was too delighted, and Kitty too distressed, to pay her any attention.

* * *

Kitty was not a girl given to brooding, however, and it was not in her nature to worry over a problem without coming to some resolution. In the days that followed, she made up her mind to offer her apologies to Rosamond at the next opportunity; for whatever that young lady's opinion of Mr. Price, she reflected, it was not worth the ruination of their friendship. Rosamond would humbly recant her words at Kitty's wedding, by which point Kitty would have magnanimously forgiven her, and in the meantime there was no need to say any more about it.

Besides, Bath was almost dull without her friend. There was still much to do, but there was nobody to talk to. Kitty enjoyed other acquaintances in the city, but none with whom she was very intimate; her mother was an eager conversationalist, but even Kitty could grow tired of discussing her own and her sister's prospects for marriage; Mary turned her nose up at talk of balls, parties and novels, and turned every careless remark into an opportunity for a lecture; and she could not be as free even with dear Mr. Price as she could with another young lady. Life with four sisters of fairly close ages had not taught Kitty to do without the society of females her own age, and with Rose currently absent from her life, Kitty found herself longing very much to talk with Maria Lucas or even Lydia.

She had no opportunity of seeing any of the Harts for some time, however, for her days were much taken up with other amusements. The Bennets spent mornings in the Pump-room and afternoons in the shops or taking the air along the Royal Crescent. They played cards at the Greens' on Monday evening and dined with the Morgans on Tuesday, and on Wednesday morning Kitty walked up to Milsom Street with Mr. Price, where they spent several very happy hours ducking in and out of the shops, and enjoyed fresh cakes at a bakery on the corner of George Street.

"Are you to go to the concert this evening, Mr. Price?" Kitty asked, as they walked back towards Henry Street.

"At the Assembly Rooms? I am not; and I am sorry it should be so, if it means I shall miss your company there."

"Oh, I am not going," Kitty said carelessly. "But Mary is—Robert Hart has invited her."

"I am sure she will enjoy the experience."

"Yes," Kitty replied dismissively, "but the trouble with Mary is that she does not know _how_ to enjoy it. She will spend all of her time listening to the music, and will not even notice his presence beside her, or the way his arm brushes hers when they applaud, or any of the other hundred things to which a young lady in love _ought_ to pay attention in such circumstances."

Mr. Price laughed. "You sound as though you have been reading novels."

Kitty blushed. "I finished _Carlotta_ only last night. But do you not agree with me, sir?"

"Of course I do. I think it vitally important that a young lady in love comport herself so, and notice all of those little things you mentioned."

They were agreeably silent for a moment, and at last Kitty mustered her courage. "For instance," she said coquettishly, "_if_ I were in love with you, Mr. Price, all of my attention should now be given to the warmth of your arm beneath my hand, and the way our shoulders touch as we walk, and—" she laughed "—the way you are now looking down at me and smiling very oddly, as if I have said something terribly amusing."

"Not amusing," he corrected her gently, "only very very welcome."

Kitty was consumed with happiness, and leaned in toward him, blushing happily.

"Miss Kitty," the gentleman began quietly after a moment, "I hope I am not too forward, but I must speak what is in my heart."

Kitty's heart began to beat very fast, and out of some instinct she glanced around to ensure that nobody was listening; but then, she thought joyfully, why should she care? Let the world hear!

"You cannot be entirely unaware that I have developed certain—feelings for you," Mr. Price continued. "Our acquaintance is only a short one, I allow; but never before have I found myself so drawn to a young lady. I find you charming and lovely beyond all comparison, and these hours we have spent together have been the happiest of my life."

"Mr. Price," Kitty breathed, her eyes wide with delight; but she could think of nothing else to say.

"I should not like to use the word 'love'—not so very early," he went on. "I understand it is a word which has a tendency to frighten and alarm some young ladies when used improperly, and I could not stand to give you any discomfort. That word must be employed judiciously, and it is too soon. Yet I must say frankly that I admire you, most passionately; and where there is admiration, stronger feelings must surely follow."

"You do me a great honor, sir," Kitty managed after a time. "I am glad to hear you speak so honestly, for you must know that I am not entirely indifferent to you."

"It gives me the greatest joy to hear it," Mr. Price said earnestly. They had reached the corner of Henry Street, but he stopped now and turned to face her, tenderly taking her small gloved hands in his. "And may I—may I hope that this non-indifference may develop into something more?"

Her heart in her mouth, Kitty whispered "You may."

Mr. Price smiled, and his blue eyes crinkled appealingly. "We must walk on," he said softly, "or we will begin to attract attention."

They turned and walked up along Henry Street, Kitty clinging to Mr. Price's strong arm with both hands.

"If I may make a request, Miss Kitty," Mr. Price said delicately, "I should like this matter to remain private, for the time being. It would not do to have all of Bath discussing our affairs; I have always found it distasteful to parade such matters before everybody."

"Of course," Kitty swore solemnly, though she had been imagining her mother's expression upon delivery of the news. "I shall not breathe a word."

"Nor shall I. And therefore our—feelings—will be allowed to grow naturally, without interference from anybody else."

"That is best, I think," Kitty agreed. She was too ecstatic at the moment give anything but approval to anything Mr. Price said; but, she thought, the way in which he presented the matter did indeed seem sensible.

They returned to Henry Street very shortly, where Mr. Price consented to come in and sit for a half-hour with Mrs. Bennet (Mary was attempting to read _Foundations of Natural Right_ in her bedroom). The visit passed very agreeably, though Mr. Price and Mrs. Bennet provided the majority of the conversation; Kitty was too busy reliving the past several minutes in the privacy of her mind, recalling every expression, every word, every touch of the gentleman currently seated beside her. She did not think she would ever be able to forget a moment. Her pulse was pounding; her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, and her eyes were sparkling. In fact Kitty looked lovelier at that moment than she ever had before, though she was unaware of it; and she felt a dreadful sensation in her chest when Mr. Price rose to leave, as though something very necessary had been wrenched from her.

"I will call for you again this week, Miss Kitty," the gentleman promised, and with that he was gone. Kitty dashed to the window and watched him stroll down Henry Street, until he turned the corner of Manvers Street and disappeared from view.

"My love, you are flushed," Mrs. Bennet said in concern, once her habitual raptures over Mr. Price's handsomeness and good humor had been aired. "Are you ill?"

"No," Kitty breathed, though she felt as though every nerve in her body were afire.

"Are you certain?" Mrs. Bennet gathered her daughter to her and pressed a motherly hand to her forehead. "You feel rather warm, my dear. Perhaps you should go rest; it would be shocking indeed to be ill in Bath, when there is so much to do!"

"Perhaps we ought to call Dr. Hart," Kitty suggested, and then laughed. She did not know entirely what to do with herself—for the first time, and only for an instant, she wished she were in Hertfordshire, so she could run very fast over one of the fields where nobody could see, and thus rid herself of all the excess energy coursing through her. But being in Hertfordshire would mean being away from Mr. Price, and that she did not think she could bear.

"I hope you are not feverish," Mrs. Bennet sighed. "Go upstairs and lie down, child, so that you will be well enough to walk with Mr. Price when he calls again. Mary is only reading; she will not disturb you."

Kitty did as she was told, for she could think of nothing else to do. She fairly danced up the stairs and burst into the bedroom where Mary was hunched unhappily over _Foundations of Natural Right_—which was, as Robert had said, dull.

"Mary!" Kitty cried, throwing her arms about her sister's neck in a burst of affection and thoroughly alarming her sister in the process. "Are you looking forward to your concert?"

Mary attempted to look disgruntled at having her reading disrupted, but in truth she was rather glad of the interruption. "I am," she said stiffly. "It should be a most instructive evening."

"Oh, Mary, you enjoy things for all of the wrong reasons," Kitty sighed, but she was beaming. "Do not forget to pay _some_ attention to Robert Hart, for he is your host, after all, and he is in love with you."

"He is not in love with me," Mary said crossly.

"Then he will be very shortly, I wager, for it seems to be the fashion in Bath," Kitty giggled. "But whatever are you going to wear? You cannot go in your dark blue again, for it makes you look like a governess. You must borrow one of mine; you can wear my green crape, if you like."

Mary stared at her; Kitty volunteering her clothes, particularly the ones of which she was particularly fond, was quite unheard of.

"Or my blue silk—though I suppose Robert saw me wear it at the Finches' ball, and it would not do to repeat. Besides which this is not a ball, and therefore something simpler would be best; I have a very pretty embroidered white muslin. It would be just the thing with a ribbon 'round your neck and a comb in your hair. Do not look at me so!" she laughed. "I promise it will suit you better than the pink you wore to the ball."

"Have you mistaken me for Lydia?" Mary demanded irritably, unable to think of any other response. Kitty only smiled at her.

"No indeed, but I should like to see you as happy—" she nearly said "as happy as I am," but quickly amended herself, for Mary would surely pry. "As happy as it is possible for you to be, and therefore I think we must take extra effort to make Robert Hart fall in love with you, for that will make everything better."

"There are some women whose happiness is not dependent upon their prospects for marriage."

"Now tell me," Kitty went on, ignoring her, "before I begin pulling out all of my gowns and making a great deal of clutter on your side of the room, whether you would prefer to be seen in the embroidered muslin or the green crape. "

Mary, with a sigh of resignation, chose the muslin.

* * *

The Harts called for Mary shortly after supper, though they were unable to stay for any length of time as the concert would begin soon. Her fond mother enjoined her to "be merry and cheerful, and do not talk too much, and do not forget to thank Dr. Hart for the invitation" and Kitty pressed her to "give my love to Rosamond—really—you _must_ remember to do so." Her heart fluttered excitedly in her breast as Robert Hart handed her up into the carriage, and she met Miss Hart's tranquil "Good evening, Miss Bennet," with an unusually bright smile of her own.

"My sister sends her love, Miss Hart," she said, for if she waited any longer she should certainly forget. Rosamond looked rather surprised, but pleased.

"That is kind of her."

Mary smiled. She felt as if her dreams were coming true: she was on her way to a real Bath concert, this time unhampered by the noisy presence of her mother and sister, in the company of people who loved music quite as much as she did. There would be no embarrassing hints made in front of everybody, no ill-advised descriptions of virtues she did not possess, no hissed directions to sit closer to Robert, or bat her eyes at him, or any of the other nonsense in which Kitty and her mother were forever instructing her, no need to keep a chary eye on Kitty and Mr. Price; there would merely be music, and sensible conversation—for an entire uninterrupted evening. She gave a little sigh of relief and satisfaction, and settled back against the carriage seat.

"Are you very familiar with Luigi Boccherini, Miss Bennet?" Dr. Hart asked genially.

"Not so familiar as I would like, sir. I am afraid I am not particularly well versed in string music; I have not been to many concerts, and know only what I practice myself on the pianoforte."

"Then I wish you all the pleasure, Miss Bennet, of hearing something new and interesting. I confess there are few experiences I enjoy more."

"I am in agreement upon that score," Mary said, "and therefore I must thank you, sir, for giving me this opportunity. It is exceedingly generous of you."

Dr. Hart waved a dismissive hand. "It is always agreeable to meet someone with such an appreciation of fine music. We are delighted to have you with us."

Nobody had ever said that they were _delighted_ to have Mary with them. She smiled at the kind doctor, and murmured her thanks again.

The Upper Rooms were teeming, for indeed the concert had long been anticipated among Bath's extensive musical set. Mary was momentarily afraid, as they stepped down from the carriage and into the crowd, that she would be separated from her party—but Miss Hart, emerging from the carriage behind her, tucked one of Mary's hands firmly into her elbow. They navigated the vestibule together, doing their best to keep close behind Robert and Juliet, who followed their father.

"Robert told me you are reading the Fichte text," Miss Hart said as they skirted around a very boisterous group of young gentlemen, a few of whom eyed Rosamond appreciatively. Mary frowned in their direction; this was a concert, not a ball. "Are you enjoying it?"

"I find it very interesting," Mary replied automatically; but then she recalled her conversation with Robert, and gazed into Rosamond's wide attentive eyes, and gave a little sigh. Perhaps, she thought, it was time to exercise one of her preferred virtues—that of candor. And certainly Miss Hart would not tease her as Kitty would. "In fact," she amended hesitantly, "I am bored by it."

Rosamond laughed, but not unkindly. "So was Robert. I had not put much faith in his opinion, but if _you_ do not like it any better, then I suppose I should not bother with it."

"I do not think I will bother with it either," Mary agreed, gaining confidence in her opinion. She was rather proud of herself for her frankness. "I shall put it aside, and perhaps give it to my father as a Christmas gift."

"And what will you read?" They slipped carefully past a large party of elderly ladies in voluminous silks, who smelled strongly of Olympian Dew.

"I do not know. Kitty has just finished _Carlotta_," Mary said drily. "Perhaps she will let me borrow it."

"_Carlotta_! Oh, no, Miss Bennet, that will not do at all," Rosamond said decisively. "It is a fine book on its own terms, very romantic, but I do not think you will enjoy it. It has a tendency to veer into the absurd."

"So do many novels, I understand."

"Yes, but not all—and _Carlotta_ is particularly guilty of the fault. You will think it silly, I am sure of it, for you are such a careful reader, and then you will resolve never to read novels again. We must find you something better. Anne and I had planned to visit Mostyn's this week, and I should be glad to have you join us. I am sure you will find something there that is better suited to your tastes."

"I cannot help feeling," Mary remarked, "as if I am being tutored."

"I am sorry." The young lady looked rather guilty, to Mary's surprise and (though she would not admit it) amusement. "My brothers and sisters tell me I can be rather imperious, and I suppose I am behaving so now. Of course you must read _Carlotta_ if it pleases you."

"No," Mary answered, after a long moment of hesitation, "in this, as in most things, it is good to be guided by one more familiar with the subject than oneself. I shall be glad to hear your father's opinions of the concert this evening, for he is more knowledgeable about string music than I am; and I shall be glad to have you select another novel for me to attempt, for you know the genre better than I do."

"You are very kind, Miss Bennet," Rosamond said, as they joined the rest of her family in a somewhat quieter corner.

"What act of kindness has Miss Bennet performed now?" Robert asked, taking up his customary place beside Mary.

"She has allowed me to exert my iron will over her, by giving me the opportunity to find her another novel to read. She does not seem to mind at all that I am high-handed and even rather superior about the matter." Rosamond smiled at Mary.

Robert gave a little laugh. "It is good of her indeed, to overlook those faults; it has taken me a lifetime to do so.—May I presume then, Miss Bennet, that you have given up on _Foundations of Natural Right_?"

"I have," Mary admitted. "It may indeed be the sort of book which I—or someone like myself—ought to read, but I cannot bring myself to enjoy it."

"That is the problem with being people like ourselves," Robert agreed. He smiled at her, and she returned it, this time without uncertainty.

The Octagon Room was opened at that moment, and there was no more opportunity for conversation, as the entire room began to swell in a chattering herd toward the large doors. Mary took Rosamond's arm again on an impulse, and was surprised when Robert, on her other side, offered his arm as well.

"Rose may very well break off from the party and drift away into the ether," he said into her ear. "This way your security is assured."

"Thank you," Mary answered, but the noise of the crowd made further talk impossible.

They were able to find their seats without much difficulty. The performers had already taken the stage, and there were only a few minutes of gathering quiet as the audience settled into their places, before the concert began.

Mary had heard some Boccherini before, at the very few small concerts that had been held in Meryton; but those pieces had not been performed so expertly as the music she heard now. She sank back into her seat, enchanted by the first notes of the opening minuet, and allowed herself to be carried away by the music. _This_ was what she had always longed for: excellent music, performed for people who recognized its excellence and did not merely see the event as an opportunity to gather and gossip. _This_ was what she had always imagined when her sisters begged their father to take them to London, and _this_ was the reason why she did not loathe Bath so much now as she once had. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rosamond captivated, her eyes large and shining; on her other side, she was aware of Robert leaning forward slightly, his gaze focused and appreciative. _This_, she thought—if all of Bath were _this_, then she could live here quite happily, and never again long for Hertfordshire. The thought took her dimly by surprise, but she did not pause to reflect upon it; her attention was only upon the music.

The long minuet was followed by a cello concerto, then a languid sonata, and the music began to blend seamlessly together. The performers clearly enjoyed their work. There was at some point a pause for an intermission, but even as Mary took a turn about the room with Robert, she could think only of returning to the concert and sensed that he was similarly distracted.

She was disappointed when the concert ended, though she was helpless to suppress her yawns as they made their way out to the street again. The night had turned cold, and the stars were bright above them. Mary thought with surprise that it must be quite late, for the moon had risen high. This was confirmed by little Juliet, who gave a great yawn and laid her head upon her father's shoulder as they waited for their carriage. Dr. Hart wrapped an affectionate arm around her.

"Theo and Anne will be disappointed to have missed this," Robert was saying quietly to Rosamond.

"Yes, but I believe Anne is finding it difficult these days to stay awake so long," Rosamond replied, her voice equally low, though she sounded amused. "I thought Theo would have to carry her home from the Finches' on Saturday."

"That is why they invented sedan-chairs, Rosamond." Robert's tone was teasing.

"Indeed? Theo is fortunate, then, that the inventor of sedan-chairs knew of his situation," Rosamond answered calmly, "for our brother is not so robust as he likes to think himself," and Robert gave a little snort of laughter. The carriage arrived then, and they climbed into it, Robert waiting to hand up Mary first, and then his twin.

There was not much conversation to be had on the way back to Henry Street. Dr. Hart pronounced the concert a particularly fine one, and everyone gave their agreement (except Juliet, who had fallen asleep leaning on Rosamond). But the late hour seemed to dictate quiet, and apart from a few hushed remarks on the splendor of the compositions and the skill of the performers, nobody spoke. Mary was rather glad of this, for her mind was still full of music and she did not want to have it disturbed. She let her head fall back against the seat of the carriage, and even dared to close her eyes for a moment.

She awoke with a start when the carriage stopped, to find Dr. Hart smiling at her and Robert opening the door. "I am so glad that you were able to join us this evening," the doctor whispered, for Rosamond had fallen asleep as well. "I do apologize for the late hour; I hope your mother has not been worrying about you."

"I am sure she has not," Mary whispered back. "Thank you again for your kindness. This has been," she added, with a sudden rush of feeling, "the most wonderful evening of my life."

"I am pleased to hear it. And next week, Miss Bennet," he went on softly, his eyes twinkling, "they will be performing a selection of Haydn. Do ask your good mother if she might spare you again."

Mary was quite astonished at this, but managed to stammer her agreement, flushing with delight, before whispering her thanks again and taking Robert's waiting hand to step down from the carriage.

"It was indeed an enjoyable evening," Robert said, as he walked with her to the front door. "I hope you will come with us next Wednesday."

"Your father is too liberal with his tickets," Mary countered, with a breathless laugh that surprised her.

"Not at all; for he always reserves spares, and we would all rather sit beside you than an empty seat. The empty seat does not make such amusing facial expressions when it listens."

Mary was too tired and too happy to take offense. "I am glad to amuse you."

"Consider it your method of repayment."

They stood facing each other at the front door. "Good night, Miss Bennet," Robert said easily, smiling down at her. "Come see us again at Hart House, for we like to have you there." He bowed.

"Good night," Mary said contentedly, giving him a curtsy. "Pray thank your father again for his generosity."

Robert strode back to the waiting carriage. Mary stood for a moment on the step, waving farewell, before hastening indoors. She had not realized how cool it was outside until she stood watching the Harts drive away along the silent street.

Mrs. Bennet was dozing in the sitting-room, awaiting Mary's return. Upon being awoken she was too drowsy to question her daughter overmuch about the evening, and asked only if Mary had sat beside Robert; she gave a tired smile upon receiving the affirmative. "I am glad you enjoyed yourself, my dear," she said, cupping her daughter's face with a fondness that surprised Mary. "That, you know, is why we truly came to Bath—so that you girls might enjoy yourselves." She yawned. "Good night, my love; take a candle up, for I am sure Kitty is asleep by now."

Kitty was indeed fast asleep, and Mary was careful to shield the flickering light of her candle with her hand as she picked her way across the untidy half of the room to her own bed. She undressed quickly, though she encountered some difficulty in removing the comb from her hair (it was not an action in which she had much practice), and slid beneath her blankets gratefully. Kitty gave a little sigh and turned over in her sleep. Mary blew out the candle and focused her gaze on the gleaming moon and stars out the window. Bath was quieter than she had ever heard it, but her thoughts still danced to minuets, concertos and sonatas. Her eyes fell shut. She felt she ought to reflect upon the evening, as was her habit at bedtime, but it did not seem so pressing now. She slept.


	11. Chapter 11

Mr. Price's declaration had had the effect of disposing Kitty even more kindly toward Rosamond. It is often easier to forgive a friend with whom one has had an argument, when one knows oneself to have been in the right, and the friend to have most embarrassingly misjudged—and Kitty had had a most stirring proof of her upper hand. Therefore she set out for Hart House at the next opportunity. She asked Mary to come; but her sister declined, claiming that she would not like the Harts to become tired of her. Kitty laughed at this, for it was exactly what Mr. Price always said and she recognized it as a symptom of the shy lover; and in truth she was glad to go alone, for she should like to speak to Rosamond privately.

It turned out that she did not need to go so far as Widcombe. As she hurried south toward the Broad Quay bridge, she came upon Rosamond herself, standing upon the bridge with Mr. Finch, just as Kitty herself had stood upon North Parade with Mr. Price a few days earlier. Faithful romantic that she was, Kitty felt her heart leap at the sight of this—the handsome hero alone with the beautiful maiden, perhaps already succeeding in wooing his irresolute beloved away from the wealthy villain who sought her hand. Kitty leaned on the rail a few feet away, ducking her head so her bonnet shielded her face, and attempted to hear what she could of their conversation; but it did not seem to be particularly tender at the moment. Rosamond was laughing, not a coy giggle but an honest laugh, and Mr. Finch (to Kitty's amazement) was grinning.

"Of course," he was saying, "I ought to have explained myself, or asked the obvious question; but I could not bring myself to correct the lady. She seemed very sure of herself."

"Indeed, Mr. Finch," Rosamond replied teasingly, "anybody may say anything about you, with a little confidence in their voice, and you nod your head and agree—or at the least do not disagree, which is the same thing. You must not be shocked that nobody has yet made a true study of your character, for you are forever allowing contradictions."

"I suppose you would say it is a sign of weak will."

"Not at all! I am sure that this unwillingness to correct false impressions of yourself is in fact born from a desire to be regarded as a character of myth and legend. Years from now," she went on solemnly, "when we are all dead, and someone asks—as someone inevitably will—'What about this Oliver Finch of whom I have heard so much?', there will be so many compelling lies to tell: that you penned twenty-nine volumes of sermons; that you discovered treasure beneath the Roman Baths; that you once purchased the entire Royal Crescent and then sold it the next day; that you were bishop of Bath Abbey by the time you were nineteen. They shall write such splendid false histories of you!"

Mr. Finch was laughing (laughing! Kitty thought with astonishment, for she had hardly ever seen him smile). "I am glad you see such value in my faults, Miss Rosamond," he answered. "But for my part I imagine I should try harder to speak for myself."

"I imagine you should," Rosamond allowed, "though it will be less interesting."

"It is only that I never know how to do it. I always feel very impolite when I am obliged to contradict someone, and so I decide silence is the best course. It is ridiculous, I know," he added, a little despairingly, "that I am twenty-four years of age, and unable to comport myself in society." He turned to look out along the Avon. Kitty fancied she saw a soft, sympathetic light in Rose's gray eyes, though it was difficult to tell from this distance.

"But think, Mr. Finch," Rosamond began after a moment, "how many truly offensive people one meets in society: the proud and pompous, the uncharitable, the boorish, the spiteful, the shallow, the narrow-minded. And _they_ have not your self-awareness—very often they see no fault in themselves. Take heart that you are not one of these; you are only reserved. When you do make yourself heard, you do so with all the intelligence and compassion that can be expected of any gentleman."

The gentleman said something that was too quiet for Kitty to hear, and she endeavored to move a little closer; for she felt that Rosamond had left Mr. Finch a very good opening for a pretty compliment and a declaration of love, and she did not want to miss it. But at that moment Rose's eyes fell on her, and she exclaimed "Why, Kitty!"

Mr. Finch turned to regard her as well, and went very red. Kitty, aware that no gentleman likes to be interrupted in a tender moment with his beloved, was sympathetic; but she had no choice now except to join them, and try to look as though she had not been eavesdropping.

"Hello, Rosamond," she said as cheerfully as she could, dropping into a brief curtsy, "hello, Mr. Finch. Whatever do you do here?"

"Mr. Finch was kind enough to call at Hart House this morning; and as he must return to Larkhall, and I must visit the market, we thought it would be pleasant to walk up to town together."

"I am glad I walked this way, then, for I was coming to see you; and I should have been most disappointed to go all the way to Widcombe and find nobody at home!"

Rosamond promptly invited Kitty to walk with them, and they set off north along the bridge. Whatever air of romance had enveloped the young couple before was now evaporated, and Kitty felt very sorry for poor Mr. Finch, who indeed looked remarkably self-conscious. She endeavored to ease the tension somewhat, and spoke to him first.

"Is it not a long walk for you, Mr. Finch, from Larkhall to Widcombe?" she asked.

"It is not a terrible distance," he replied quietly. "Less than an hour, all told, and it is no hardship when the weather is clement. There are many fine sights along the road."

_And at its end, no doubt_, Kitty thought with satisfaction, noting the way he glanced quickly at Rosamond, before returning his eyes to the street ahead.

"My sister and I are always so glad when Mr. Finch is able to find time to visit us," Rosamond said, smiling at him. "He is a most agreeable companion, and devotes himself to our amusement; he is far more gallant with us than our brothers ever are."

"That is a common failing of the brother," Mr. Finch agreed shyly. "As gallant as I may be with you, Miss Rosamond, I scarcely afford the same consideration to my own sisters."

Rosamond laughed, and Mr. Finch looked pleased at having made her do so; Kitty, who had never heard the gentleman joke before, let out a startled little laugh of her own.

"I wish I had brothers," she said. "I like having Mr. Bingley as a brother-in-law, for he is so cheerful, and I should want more brothers like him. I have only four sisters, and out of them only one or two are at all agreeable."

"It is so in every large family," Rosamond agreed sagely. "Really I can only bear Juliet's company with any gladness; Robert is always arguing with me, and Theo and Helena make me tired."

"But you have a sister-in-law with whom you are intimate," Kitty countered, "and that is the same as having another sister. And perhaps soon you shall have _another_ sister-in-law whom you love just as well. So then you shall have three siblings you like, out of a possible seven (if we include your sister's husband)—and that is not so bad."

She was pleased to find Rosamond as pleasant to her as ever, at least in Mr. Finch's company; furthermore, she was proud of herself to have so neatly hinted at the match between Mary and Robert. She should have liked to make her insinuation more explicit, but Rosamond had turned to Mr. Finch.

"Three out of seven—is that a good fraction, Mr. Finch? I ask because _you_ have seven siblings, counting Mrs. Fitzwilliam is who like a sister to you, and therefore you are our basis for comparison. How many of your brothers and sisters do you truly like?"

"All of them," the gentleman replied, rather stiffly, Kitty thought. Rosamond only gave him a little smile.

"You are a paragon, sir."

"That is," Mr. Finch amended hesitantly, perhaps realizing that his response had disappointed her, "I like all of them now, when I am on the verge of moving away to Larkhall. If I were to live with them all for much longer, my answer might be rather different."

The young ladies laughed.

"That is how I feel," Kitty answered readily. "I like Lizzie very much now, when she is away in Derbyshire; but when she lived at Longbourn she was forever nagging me and being very serious and dull. And I am hardly ever fond of Mary, except when she is asleep, but perhaps I will like her more when she marries and sets up house someplace."

"You are too hard on your sisters!" Rosamond cried, laughing. "I can attest to Mrs. Darcy's goodness, for I like her very much; and as to Miss Bennet—"

"Oh," Kitty interrupted, "Miss Bennet is very good to _you_, Rose, and to your family, for she has excellent reason to be."

Rosamond glanced at her, eyes sparkling. "And what reason might that be?"

Kitty giggled. "Why," she answered innocently, "you keep inviting her to concerts; and if left to her own devices, she should never attend any. Mamma would not take her."

"That is a good reason to be agreeable," Rosamond allowed. "I am glad to know that, even if Miss Bennet's friendship with me is a ruse, it is all in the name of Music."

"Or Love," Kitty added cheekily—"for indeed she loves music."

They walked on, Rosamond supplying light conversation as they made their way along the busy streets of Bath. Kitty was glad to talk with her; she had not realized how very much she had missed Rose's easy company over the course of the past week. She chatted happily with her friend, describing how she had been spending her days (though she concealed a few details relating to Mr. Price) and listening to Rose's accounts of the concert and visits with mutual friends. Mr. Finch remained largely silent, though he would speak agreeably enough if applied to by Rosamond; he addressed Kitty only once or twice, and then very awkwardly. Kitty was at first irritated by this, but quickly saw in it a satisfying proof of his love—how could he give his proper attention to Miss Katherine Bennet when all he could think of was Miss Rosamond Hart?

The gentleman left them where the Grand Parade met the Orange Grove crescent; he was to take Arglye Street east to Larkhall, while they went west to the Guildhall Market. He offered his compliments to both of their families, and bowed very low before making a hasty escape. Kitty stood watching him go, rather bemused; but Rosamond took her arm and guided her along the crescent.

"He is a very odd sort of gentleman," Kitty said, momentarily forgetting that she wished to encourage Rosamond in that gentleman's direction.

"Mr. Finch? He is merely shy; it is sometimes the case with the younger children of a large family."

"That is not the case with my family," Kitty said decidedly. "Lydia has never in her life been shy, and I do not think I am either."

"Nor do I," Rosamond said teasingly. "But one must make allowances for differences of temperament. Some, when confronted with a loud room, endeavor to be the loudest; others prefer not to add to the noise. Mr. Finch is very amiable when one comes to know him better."

"He is very amiable with _you_," Kitty hinted, remembering her purpose. "He came to call on us the other day, and he was not at all—not at all the way he is when you speak to him."

"He came to call on you?" Rosamond regarded her with interest.

"Yes, but as I say, he was not so pleasant as he is with you. He hardly spoke, and he never laughed or told any jokes; indeed the only time he smiled was when Mamma mentioned you. I am sorry to say that he was very dull."

Rosamond gave a little laugh. "Do not mistake reticence for dullness. 'Still waters run deep,' and Oliver Finch is certainly worth the trouble of making conversation."

"Well," Kitty said, "I am glad you have taken that trouble, for he seems to like you very much."

"We are good friends," Rosamond agreed.

"Have you been long acquainted?"

"Oh," Rosamond replied carelessly, "we have been long acquainted with nearly everybody in Bath. My father used to attend the Finch children when they were ill—I believe he nursed Miss Louisa through a rather dangerous fever. And Theo was at school with Mr. Rowland. Now that Theo has married Anne, that has brought Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam into our circle, and of course she used to be Miss Finch; so I suppose we have spent a great deal of time with them recently."

"But particularly with Mr. Oliver? I seem to see him more than the others." Kitty was very proud of her carefully neutral tone; perhaps, as Mrs. Bennet seemed to think, she had the makings of a matchmaker.

"I suppose so. He has not yet taken on his full duties at Larkhall—he will not, I understand, until he is settled in the curate's house. And so he has some spare time to himself for the moment. You seem very curious," she added, smiling at Kitty.

"Oh—I am not really," Kitty said, rather flustered.

They had reached Guildhall Market by this time, and they walked through it in a companionable silence that was scarcely noticeable above the general din of merchants and shoppers going about their business. Rosamond stopped every so often to examine a stall or a cart, and occasionally made an order for later delivery to Hart House. Kitty, who had only ever been to the much smaller market in Meryton, was content to look about her. The bright fruits and vegetables gave every appearance of midsummer, though it was nearly September, for the season had been very mild; and the thick cuts of meat at the butchers' told of an abundant year. Kitty was a little alarmed by the large fish at the fishmongers' stall, who gaped at her with blank eyes and open mouths, and she was glad when Rosamond concluded her business there quickly.

"They come along the river from Bristol," her friend whispered, as they hurried away, "and they are very good; but I confess I do not like looking at them."

The young ladies made their way through the warren of stalls, pausing to examine a few bolts of fabric and spools of ribbon. The market was crowded, and their progress was slow. Merchants touted their wares noisily, as shoppers meandered from stall to stall or hurried purposefully about their errands. There were not so many fine clothes or fashionable people to be seen as on Milsom Street, but Rosamond was greeted very cheerfully by several well-dressed ladies—most of them were the wives of clergymen and lawyers and such, but a few were, like Rose herself, the young daughters of widowers, who had learned at an early age the business of keeping house.

Kitty had thought before that Bath was rather quiet, for it was not the Season, but Guildhall proved otherwise. For the first time, it occurred to Kitty that Bath was a living city, not merely a parade of glittering dance-floors and fashionable card-parties. Society may have decamped to London or the country for the autumn, but Bath was hardly empty: there was still business to be done and lives to be lived. Glancing at Rosamond, who looked very capable as she gave her order to the baker, Kitty began to realize that her friend had concerns beyond balls and beaux, and the thought gave her a strange feeling—as though she was somehow out of her depth.

"It is kind of you, Kitty, to walk with me," Rosamond said, as they continued on their way. "I am sure this cannot be very interesting to you. Usually I come with Anne or with Cook—sometimes I am obliged to come alone—but it is pleasant to have your company."

"In fact I had hoped to speak to you privately, Rose," Kitty said, screwing up her courage, "and I have not had the chance until now."

Rosamond met her eyes with a little smile. "How ominous that sounds! I hope I have not offended you in some way."

"No," Kitty replied, "no, for I am afraid _I_ have offended _you_, Rosamond. What I said at the Finches' ball—"

She hesitated, for a desire to tell Rosamond of Mr. Price's confession, and to gloat over her friend, had suddenly ignited in her breast. How satisfying, she thought, to give Rosamond such a proof of her wrongheadedness—to prove that it was _she_ who had been unfairly maligned, and Mr. Price as well—

But Kitty, petty though she could be at times, was not naturally of a malicious temperament; besides, she suspected that Rosamond would be less willing to forgive deliberate spite than momentary anger. "It was callous," she finished, "and I ought not to have said it. You are not shallow, or selfish, and it was wrong of me to make the suggestion. I am very sorry."

Rosamond was regarding her thoughtfully, her large eyes never leaving Kitty's face; and at the final words her features softened. "Of course I forgive you," she replied softly, "and I must offer my own apologies; it was not my place to interfere."

_No, it was not_, Kitty thought, rather smugly, but she did not say it.

"You are my friend," Rose continued, "and therefore it is my wish to see you happy. You seem to be happy now, and I am glad of it, whatever its cause."

"I am very happy," Kitty affirmed, beaming.

Rosamond linked their arms again, and they made their way out of the bustling market and into the open air.

* * *

Mrs. Bennet had thought aright when she crowed that everyone in Bath, seeing Mary with the Harts at the concert, would make the obvious conclusion; though it was to be wondered whether this conclusion would have been so obvious if Mrs. Bennet herself had not industriously instilled the idea in so many minds.

"I was so pleased to see you at the concert last night, Miss Bennet, though I did not have a chance to say hello," simpered Mrs. Carpenter, who had called at Henry Street. Kitty having gone to Hart House, Mary had been summoned to take her sister's usual place in the sitting-room, though she usually did her best to avoid such mornings. "And of course _none_ of us were surprised to see you with Dr. Hart and his family. We all know perfectly well how it is."

"I am afraid I do not take your meaning, ma'am," Mary answered, frowning. Her pleasant memories of the concert began to evaporate in the face of so much gossip.

"Well, well, it does not do to talk of such things too much," Mrs. Carpenter said, with a significant smile. "Of course we must be discreet. But I _must_ congratulate you, Miss Bennet; he is such an amiable gentleman. I daresay there are plenty of young ladies in Bath who would not mind being in your position."

"Oh, we are all very fond of Mr. Hart!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "He is exceedingly clever, of course, and he and Mary are always having such fascinating conversations together. They are scarce to be parted. He has invited her to another concert next week, you know."

"In fact it was Dr. Hart who made the invitation," Mary interjected, but Mrs. Bennet waved a dismissive hand.

"On his son's behalf, of course, my love; you must know that.—The entire family is so fond of my Mary," Mrs. Bennet continued eagerly to Mrs. Carpenter. "Miss Hart simply dotes upon her, to be sure, and Dr. Hart already looks on her as a daughter. And it is always best, I find, for a young lady to marry into a family where she already has friends. My Jane was very intimate with Mr. Bingley's sisters before ever Mr. Bingley proposed, and it has worked out beautifully."

"Indeed," Mrs. Carpenter agreed sagely, glad to find an opening in the conversation. "My Cecily became Miss Ingram's _particular_ friend almost as soon as they met, and that is how she met Mr. Ingram in the first place; and they could not be happier. And my Julia—"

"I could not imagine a more perfect match," Mrs. Bennet went on blissfully, with that particular deafness granted to mothers whose chief delight is discussing the triumphs of their own progeny. "Mr. Hart's temperament, his interests, his opinions, his situation—it is all quite as though it has been arranged, as though he has been made for Mary. They are so much alike, you know, and they fit so well together. No," she repeated emphatically, "I could not imagine a more perfect match."

Mrs. Bennet had been making similar statements ever since they had come to Bath—indeed, some vague precursors had passed her lips before they even left Pemberley, where she had first discovered the existence of an unmarried Hart brother—but Mary, looking at her mother now, saw for the first time how firmly Mrs. Bennet believed what she was saying. An anxious little knot began to twist and swell in her chest.

Mrs. Carpenter took her leave a few happy minutes later, and Mrs. Bennet turned to her daughter, beaming with satisfaction. "There, you see?" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I thought people might notice your going to the concert with the Harts. Nobody will be surprised, I wager, when the engagement is announced."

"I wish you would stop talking about an engagement that does not exist," Mary snapped, feeling suddenly furious with her mother.

Mrs. Bennet did not appear to notice her daughter's vexation. "It does not exist _yet_, my dear, but it shall!"

"And if it does not?" Mary retorted.

Her mother regarded her as though she had begun speaking another language. "You are tired, child," she said, soothingly, after a moment; "It is from staying out so late last night.—And," she added, triumphantly, "I will shortly be writing to Lady Lucas and your aunt Phillips, telling them about both you and your sister, so you know that there shall be great celebrating in Meryton when the announcement is made!"

"Mamma!" Mary cried. "It is uncertain yet that there will ever _be_ an announcement; and here you are boasting about it to everyone of our acquaintance! What will happen if I do not marry Mr. Hart—or if Kitty does not marry Mr. Price?"

"Do not shout at me, Mary Bennet," her mother said coldly.

"But I do not want to marry him!" Mary shouted.

The forcefulness of her exclamation surprised even her, and the sitting-room was for a moment cast into a very stunned silence.

"Robert Hart is an excellent friend," Mary said after a long hesitation, and her voice sounded terribly quiet in the stillness of the room. "But as to marriage—Mamma, I am not prepared."

Her voice broke, and she suddenly found herself blinking away tears. She brushed at her eyes impatiently.

"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Bennet said softly. She came to sit beside her daughter, and took one of Mary's hands in her own. "You are thinking too much; you always do. Marriage is not the sort of thing for which one can practice. You do not see it now, but the preparation is done. Mr. Hart is an excellent gentleman with whom you can live a happy life; you are already attached to him, and now it is only a matter of making things official."

"I do not want to marry him," Mary insisted.

Mrs. Bennet sighed and brushed a stray curl from Mary's eyes. "Of course you do; you are only nervous, for you will be taking on a new role and new duties. It is very different, you know, being a wife. I remember feeling quite out of sorts for the first year of my marriage to Mr. Bennet. _That_ cannot be avoided."

"But you looked forward to marrying Papa," Mary pressed. "You were excited; you imagined yourself as a bride."

"Indeed, for I had wished for a long time to have a house of my own, and I was eager to be a mother. And of course every young lady dreams of having a grand wedding, and I had bought the most beautiful wedding-clothes…" She gave a little faraway sigh, then abruptly shook her head and met Mary's eyes again. "But naturally I was also apprehensive. To marry is to create a new life and leave the old behind, and that does not come without a little fear. I wore a very brave face, to be sure, but you cannot think I was entirely easy—not with my poor nerves being what they are!"

Mary regarded her mother seriously. Mrs. Bennet was smiling at her encouragingly; but she also looked tired. It struck Mary suddenly that her parents' marriage was not at all what she wanted for herself—but of course she could not say so. The anxious little knot in her chest swelled a little larger, and she gently removed her hand from her mother's.

"I think I will go read," she said quietly.

"Very well, my love; but do not concern yourself anymore about this matter. It is quite natural for you to be nervous—it does not signify anything. Every young lady in such a situation suffers from a touch of nerves."

Mary only nodded, and hurried out of the sitting-room and up the stairs.

It seemed a long while since she had lain in bed, wondering why she was not in love with Robert Hart, though in fact it had been less than a fortnight. Mary had always believed her daylight hours could be more constructively engaged than in daydreams, but as she entered the bright bedroom she saw nothing that could occupy her. Her thoughts were whirling, her heart pounding. She sat heavily down upon her bed, and gazed vacantly out the window at the blue Bath sky, fringed along the lower sill with the tops of houses and buildings; and there she stayed for several minutes, thinking of everything and nothing, until at last she gave herself a little shake and frowned. Certainly this absentmindedness was not helping anything.

The matter, she felt, should be addressed as rationally as possible. She began with a consideration of points that spoke _for_ her mother's view of the situation:

1. She enjoyed his company and his attention, and when she viewed the matter objectively, she believed she could truly live a happy life at his side. (The thought of actually _beginning_ that life made the little knot in her chest twist more tightly, but she put this aside for the moment.)

2. They were equals in intellect, and when they disagreed, they were able to do so civilly. They were candid with one another, an element which many marriages did not possess. Robert's conversation was among the only that she had ever found consistently interesting.

3. Though he was young, Robert boasted excellent prospects. The life Dr. Hart provided for his family was a proof that an exceedingly comfortable income was to be made in Robert's chosen field; furthermore, with his many friends and family connections he would have no trouble in establishing himself. Mary would never have so many clothes or servants as her elder sisters, but she would not want for anything within reason.

4. He had shown no inclination to find fault with her, at least not in the way that an unkind husband would. He was honest, of course, but that was to be desired in a mate. He seemed unlikely to separate her from the things that gave her pleasure: music, reading and being outdoors. In fact he encouraged her in these pursuits.

5. Though the thought made her blush hotly, she did find Robert attractive. There was a quiet charm in his gray eyes, his tall frame, his fair hair. She had even enjoyed dancing with him, to an extent, and she was always pleased when he gave her his arm as they walked; clearly (she nearly buried her face in her hands out of shame) she appreciated physical contact with him.

6. She found his family and friends agreeable. It had already been discovered that they shared important interests, and the Harts had welcomed her most generously into their circle. This would of course make married life far more comfortable.

7. Robert Hart was, above all else, a good friend—and was not friendship the truest basis of love?

Perhaps, she thought, viewing the matter from this side, a case could be made for marriage. Certainly Robert Hart exhibited all of the traits she desired in a husband, and more—she truly _liked_ him. She could not think of anybody else she would rather marry. They were, as Mrs. Bennet had declared, quite a perfect match.

But this thought made her grow anxious again, and her mind naturally turned over to the points which spoke _against_ her mother's view:

1. Robert had already told her that he had no desire to marry at the present time, and indeed it was in part upon this fact that the openness of their friendship had first been established.

2. The only other reason which occurred to her was also the most insurmountable: she did not feel herself ready for marriage. The very thought made her palms sweat and her heart pound uneasily; she could not imagine giving up her solitude, even for someone she liked as much as Robert. She felt certain that she would be ready in time, but now—now she could not fathom it.

But perhaps, she thought worriedly, this was merely a symptom of the general apprehension to which her mother had referred. Certainly every girl was nervous before her marriage, and doubts were to be expected. Had Robert spoken truly when he told her he was not ready, or was he merely experiencing the basic anxiety of the suitor? Was he expecting a serious attachment to form—did he think that one already had? Did he believe that she expected a proposal? Perhaps she had misjudged the situation entirely. Was it truly possible that her sister and mother—indeed, all of Bath by now—were seeing something that was not there, or was she the one who was blind?

Mary lay back upon her pillows, suddenly feeling rather ill, and passed a hand over her eyes. What should she do, she asked herself, if Robert did propose? She imagined him saying those words—"_I must tell you of my feelings; I am in love with you; will you be my wife"_—but instead of a quickening pulse and fluttering heart, she felt only a little cold shiver of dread and a tiny voice in her head cried _Don't make me, don't make me, not yet!_

"Is it so strange," she demanded of the empty room, "to love a man, and yet be afraid of marrying him?" She wondered distantly if something was terribly wrong with her.

Mary had indeed been out very late the previous evening, and so it will come as no surprise to the reader (though Mary had never been fond of naps, believing them thoroughly unproductive) that she soon drifted into an uneasy doze, and woke only when Kitty came in, weighed down with a new bonnet and several very pretty ribbons from the shops in Milsom Street.

* * *

The next days passed without much change at Henry Street. Mary was quiet and disagreeable, which Kitty thought quite unaccountable of her since she had been to her precious concert and was to attend another quite soon; and Kitty herself was more merry than ever, her spirits buoyed not only by the discreet attentions of Mr. Price (who came to walk with her again on Friday, and said many more wonderful things to her) but by her tête-à-tête with Rosamond. Mrs. Bennet, faithful that her conversation with Mary had allayed her daughter's fears, rested happy in the knowledge that her last two daughters would soon be married, and all of her worries ended forever.

Miss Hart had not forgotten her engagement with Mary, and arrived on Saturday morning. Mary, who had not seen Robert since the concert, felt awkward around his sister; with every glance at Miss Hart's sunny countenance, she could not help wondering if the young lady shared those expectations and suspicions which seemed to delight everyone else of their acquaintance. Was there not a certain gleam in Miss Hart's eyes when she looked at Mary; a certain smile playing about her lips; a certain familiarity in her address, as though she were already preparing to embrace Mary as a sister-in-law?

"I thought Mrs. Hart was to join us," Mary said desperately, for she was suddenly unreasonably afraid that Rosamond, unchecked by another presence, would want to talk about Robert. It was not a conversation to which she presently felt equal.

"Anne is indisposed this morning," Miss Hart replied, "to her great disappointment, for she loves visiting Mostyn's.—It is nothing serious," she added, at Mary's look of alarm, "I understand it is only a little weakness. But I am concerned, Miss Bennet, for it was only with much effort on both our parts that Anne and I were able to find something which interested you; and now I am afraid that I alone shall not be able to do you justice. Do you think your sister might like to join us?"

Kitty had gone to the Pump Room with Miss Wolfe, and Mary relayed the information with some relief. Miss Hart may have been _liable_ to introduce Robert into the conversation at some point, but Kitty was _certain_ to do so, along with many giggles and significant looks and transparent hints from which Miss Hart, with her quieter manner, would most likely abstain.

The day, at least, was cloudless and bright, and Mary felt her spirits lift somewhat as they set out from Henry Street; good weather always affected her so. Miss Rosamond seemed disinclined to discuss her brother, and was instead more interested in hearing Mary's opinions of the concert they attended, and offering her own. This was a subject upon which Mary was most eager to engage, and their walk was pleasant, as both of the young ladies shared their raptures over Wednesday's entertainment. Mary was pleased to find Miss Rosamond's opinion of the performance as high as her own, for she felt that the young lady, having attended many such concerts, was to be trusted in such matters.

"We have missed you at Hart House," Rosamond said, as their conversation shifted from Boccherini specifically to music generally. "It is always agreeable to have music in the home which I am not obliged to provide."

"You and your family have already been too generous with me; I could not take further advantage of your kindness."

"What kindness? You have earned your right to borrow my instrument, Miss Bennet, for you read _The Italian_ in its entirety despite your very strong objections to it, and that was our agreement. I am merely fulfilling my end of the accord."

"But the concerts," Mary said, rather helplessly; "I have done nothing to earn _those_."

"Do you imagine that we invite you because we are generous?" Miss Rosamond demanded, with a little laugh. "Indeed, Miss Bennet, it is only because we are all so tired of each other that we require someone else to talk to, and you seem a most willing victim. If it were not you, it should be some other unfortunate young lady."

"You tease, Miss Hart, but I am aware—" Mary stopped. She could not bring herself to finish the sentence; _she_ certainly had not intended to mention Robert, and she cursed herself for doing so now. This was not a conversation which she felt could give her any pleasure. Rosamond, however, seemed to take her meaning.

"Aware that we—or rather I—wish to encourage the friendship between yourself and my brother? There is no harm in saying so."

They were silent for a long moment. Mary was choosing her next words carefully.

"I only hope," she said at last, her voice low, "that I am not fostering some expectation which I cannot at this time hope to fulfill."

Miss Rosamond nodded, though she was not looking at Mary. Her eyes were directed on the road ahead, and she seemed to be thinking seriously.

"I am not unaware, Miss Bennet," she answered finally, "that there have been certain—rumors. It seems that a lady and a gentleman cannot be friends in Bath, without providing a wealth of speculation for those who interest themselves in such matters. Certainly," she added, with a rueful little smile, "_I_ understand your position. I am obliged to tell you that upon this subject you are consulting with the wrong twin; Robert's concerns are his alone; but for my part, I can say freely that my only expectation of you is your friendship—to myself and to my family."

Mary's relief staggered her with its strength. Mrs. Bennet had made so much of the young lady's approval—had assured her so confidently that Robert's proposal would be dependent upon his sister's opinion—that to hear Rosamond herself disclaim any interest in the match was a weight lifted from her shoulders. Yet a nagging worry still remained.

"Do you believe," she asked, "that Robert shares my feelings on the matter?"

"Again, Miss Bennet, I must encourage you to discuss your feelings with the brother and not with the sister. I cannot answer for him. It would be unfair to both of you."

"Your respect for your brother does you credit, Miss Hart," Mary said, though she was not entirely reassured. "It is always best for siblings to find a happy medium between concern for one another and care for each others' privacy. The healthiest familial relationships are those that do not overstep their bounds."

Miss Rosamond laughed. "Robert and I were not always so respectful; as children we would spy upon Theo and take notes on his doings, and I regret to admit that I used to read Helena's diary quite regularly. It was far more thrilling than my own, for that was before I was 'out.' And even after," she added good-humoredly, "I was never able to attract as much excitement as my sister."

"I used to read Jane's diary," Mary confessed, glad of the change in subject, "though I always found it more disconcerting than exciting. I could not imagine being obliged to attend so many balls and parties, and speak to so many people; the very idea was alarming to me. I am afraid I have not the temperament for society."

Rosamond laughed again. "The key, Miss Bennet, is to learn what type of society you can bear, and make your home there."

"I would limit myself to concerts and intellectual gatherings if I could, for that is where I feel I could enjoy the best education, but I fear my mother and sister would disapprove. They think it unconscionable of a young lady not to enjoy a ball."

"Indeed? I suppose then you must take your education where you can find it. The world itself is a great teacher, even when we have not the advantage of listening to the masters or discoursing with philosophers."

Mary thought privately that this was easy enough for Miss Rosamond to say, for her father held a subscription to Bath's famous concerts and her home boasted an impressive library brimming with texts of all disciplines. But she did not say so.

Mostyn's was busy, and a cheerful hum filled the shop as the young ladies entered. Rosamond steered them expertly toward the shelves devoted to fiction, though she assured Mary that they could look about the shop more thoroughly once they had selected her novel, and there they stood for some time. It seemed to Mary that she could not have found a better guide for her entry into the world of novels, for Miss Rosamond scanned the books with an expert eye, considering and dismissing them easily with no more than a glance at their titles, and kept up a running commentary as she did so, which seemed to be addressed half to Mary and half to herself.

"If you have not done so," she remarked, "you must read _The Vicar of Wakefield_, for it is one of those which everybody has read; but that we can leave for another day. People tend to make much of _Pamela_, but for my part I found it ridiculous, for the girl herself was a fool and her lover was a villain—that will not do. _The Broken Mirror_ has an excellent mystery, but there is not very much meaning in it; we have already tried Mrs. Radcliffe so we shall look elsewhere for now; _Love in Excess_? But it is written from the perspective of the gentleman, and I do not think you will approve of him. You ought to read _Tristram Shandy_ when you have a great deal of time, but just now I think we shall try something simpler. _Carlotta _we have already dismissed, and so let us dismiss _Juliana_, _Olympia_ and _Florentina_ right alongside it. _The Widow's Secret_?—no, it is too silly."

At length, she pulled two volumes from the shelves, and presented them to her companion with a flourish which made Mary smile in spite of herself. "_Emma Courtney_ is quite good; it has much to do with thought and philosophy; but I am worried you may find it rather shocking," she explained. "One of our neighbors scolded Papa for letting me read it—though he has never censored our reading, and I do not think it has done me any harm. But I do not know how your parents feel about such things. _Evelina_ is older, but the story is good and the heroine is far more sympathetic than many of these beautiful idiots one finds in novels, and for the most part it is very realistic. That one I think you will like especially, as it the story of a girl who must learn to make her way in society, though she is not always sure of herself."

Mary met Rosamond's eyes, wondering what was meant by this, but the young lady looked as tranquil as ever. "Which should you prefer?" Rosamond asked.

"I suppose I will take _Evelina_," Mary replied.

"That is a good choice," Miss Hart agreed with a smile.

The selection made, the young ladies were in no hurry to leave the shop, and drifted quietly apart; Miss Hart browsed casually through a section of historical works, while Mary turned to the shelf of sermons and philosophical texts. There were several books there which she had not read, nor even seen in the libraries at Longbourn, Netherfield or Pemberley, and she pulled a few from the shelf in order to page through them. But ultimately, to her displeasure, she could not find anything terribly interesting, and she was obliged to return them all to their places. At any rate, she reflected, she ought to abstain from buying any new books of philosophy until she had least completed _Foundations of Natural Right_. She glanced over at Miss Hart, who now stood near one of the bright windows, reading intently; it seemed Mary had plenty of time to peruse. There was great pleasure, she thought, in having the time to browse and wander; it was a great luxury in which she had scarcely ever been indulged, having always been hurried along by a sister or mother who had no interest in Meryton's dusty little bookshop, and wanted to see the new hats and bonnets displayed in the windows of Mr. Sterling's.

Before very long, Mary's amble around the shop took her back to the shelf of fiction, and she hesitated before it. _The Memoirs of Emma Courtney_ had not yet been re-shelved, and it still sat where Miss Hart had set it down. She picked up the book and turned a few pages; there did not seem to be anything very shocking that she could see, but certainly the text included plenty of the words that she had been accustomed to seeing in more serious works. Miss Hart had said that the book dealt with philosophy; she wondered what exactly she had meant. Would it be very foolish of her, to purchase _two_ novels? Certainly Kitty would be shocked.

She set the book down again. Mary Bennet does not read novels, she told herself sternly, except when she is compelled to do so, and then she does not enjoy them; she reads sermons and treatises and books of ideas. Novels are the preferred reading material of the trivial-minded, and Mary Bennet is very serious of mind.

But she picked the book up again, biting her lip. _Evelina_ did not look as though it would take her a very long time, and the thought of attempting _Foundations of Natural Right_ again made her sigh. She would need something to read in the coming weeks, and it may as well be something interesting. With a little nod of decision, she fit the book under her arm, where it rested on top of _Evelina_.

"Have you changed your mind?" Miss Hart asked behind her.

"No," Mary said, turning to face her, "I believe I shall take both."

Rosamond's face betrayed no shock or surprise. Perhaps the moment was not so historic as Mary had thought. "Sometimes that is the best option," the young lady agreed, smiling. "Shall we go? There is a very good tea-shop around the corner."

Mary agreed, and the two ladies paid for their purchases and left Mostyn's behind.

* * *

_August 31, 1798_

_12 Henry Street_

_Bath, Somersetshire_

_My dear sister,_

_You simply must come to Bath when you have an opportunity! It is a town built upon amusements and entertainments; not a day goes by when we do not receive some invitation or other, or when we are not called upon by a friend or acquaintance. Everybody here is very obliging and we are hardly ever at home, for there is so much to do. And of course, as I had hoped, Bath is filled with young gentlemen, every one of them as amiable and handsome as you please, though I suppose this is not at all important to __you_ _as you have no daughters of your own. _

_Still, I am sure you will be very pleased to know that both of your nieces have done prodigiously well here, even Mary though we certainly did not expect it of her! She has formed an attachment with a Mr. Hart, son of Dr. Hart, who has attended the Royal Family on more than one occasion—so we certainly shall not be ashamed to be connected with such a family. Mr. Hart is to carry on his father's practice, I understand, so Mary shall be very well provided for. He indeed seems very close to making a proposal, as his family has already shown Mary great consideration in singling her out on numerous occasions. I may confess to you, sister, that I have long worried about the prospect of having a spinster daughter to look after forever, for Mary has never attracted the attention of a gentleman; but I shall worry no longer. She is very much attached to him and he seems to share her regard._

_Of course Kitty has received a great deal of attention here, as we knew she would, but in particular from a Mr. Price, who has a house in Town (and one in the country, to be sure) and three carriages of his own. Kitty is already very much attached to him and I suspect he has made some confession of his feelings to her, though she has not said so to me (you know how girls can be about such things). He is the handsomest man we ever saw, and very amiable and lively. I could not have arranged a better match! I look forward to writing to Mr. Bennet very soon with two happy announcements, which I know will give him great pleasure. He is as eager as I am to have the girls married and taken care of. It will be the greatest relief to both of us to see all of our daughters settled in homes of their own; certainly I may hint to you that it is no small accomplishment to find excellent husbands for __five__ young ladies, and I shall be deservedly pleased with myself when it is done!_

_Sister, I am called away now, for Mr. Hart has come to call and Mary and I must attend him. I shall hope that at our next meeting, you will find me the happy mother of five married daughters—indeed I believe it is quite certain at this point. Of course I send you all of my love, and my best wishes to Mr. Phillips and all of our friends in Meryton._

_Your fond sister,_

_Frances Bennet_

Mrs. Bennet crossed the 't' on her surname with a flourish and leaned back, satisfied. Of course Mr. Hart had not come to call, but Mrs. Phillips could not know that, and it certainly looked well upon the page. She gave a little happy sigh as she folded, sanded and sealed the letter. What a triumph, to return to Meryton with her last daughters married! How shocked and envious everybody would be!

Setting aside the letter to her sister, Mrs. Bennet pulled a new sheaf of paper toward her, and began writing again.

_August 31, 1798_

_12 Henry Street_

_Bath, Somersetshire_

_My dear friend,_

_We are all very well here in Bath, though kept exceedingly busy by the many invitations and calls we receive. The girls are enjoying themselves immensely, and have made many friends and acquaintances—including two very __particular__ friends of whom I shall say more in a moment! I really must recommend that you bring Maria here at the next opportunity, for this is the best place in the world to meet gentlemen and form attachments. I daresay Charlotte would not have married so late in life, if she had come to Bath when she was one- or two-and-twenty!_

_It is not for much longer that Longbourn will be able to boast the presence of a "Miss Bennet," for I imagine I shall be writing a long letter to Mr. Bennet very soon, with two happy announcements enclosed…_


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** First of all, I just wanted to thank everyone again for all of your reviews. I feel like I don't do that enough. It really makes me so happy to hear from everybody, with your conjectures on where things are going; sometimes you guys come up with ideas that I like better than mine, or you see things in the story that I wasn't even aware I was writing. Pretty cool! So thank you all so much, especially those brave souls who have reviewed every chapter (and those _incredibly_ brave souls who followed me here from _Miss de Bourgh_!).

While I don't usually respond to reviews in-story, mostly because I don't like to take up story space, I did get a couple of direct questions on the last chapter. I'd like to answer them real quick, and since I honestly _cannot_ figure out how to send a private message (is that the saddest thing ever, guys?), I'm going to answer them here. I'm sorry! Just read on if you're bored!

_Elvira26_: I was in English Lit major in college. One of the classes I took (in London, actually) was on 18th century British fiction, during which I had to read _Pamela_ —Rosamond's opinion of it is a much gentler phrasing of my own—as well as _The Italian_, among others. Most of the books mentioned can probably be purchased somewhere on this World Wide Web, although several of them (_The Broken Mirror_, _The Widow's Secret_, _Carlotta, Juliana, Olympia _and _Florentina_) are my own invention. _Tristram Shandy_ is particularly recommended. Enjoy!

_Avanell_: I've set the story in the late 18th century, as that is when _Pride and Prejudice _was originally written and intended to take place, though it wasn't published until 1813. I guess I just prefer the 18th century aesthetic to the 19th!

(And if anyone wants to tell me how to use the PMs, I'd appreciate it. All I see is "Outbox" and "Inbox" and nowhere does it say "Compose Message" or anything similar. Question mark? I used to be able to do it, but this "v2.0" has me all confused.)

* * *

September came quietly, bringing with it nothing more threatening than cooler nights and a few more red and gold leaves on the trees than there had been before. Yet the changing months reminded the Bennets that their stay in Bath was not permanent, and indeed that Michaelmas, and their return to Longbourn, was not so far away as it had seemed back in Auguest.

"If only we could have come for a Season," Mrs. Bennet lamented, "then we might really have enjoyed ourselves! I have heard that Bath is very different in the spring. And we would not be obliged to leave so soon, for I understand that many families come for a Season and stay into the summer. But I suppose we may have reason yet to return to Bath." She winked at Mary, who averted her gaze.

"You speak as if we are leaving tomorrow, Mamma," Kitty exclaimed, alarmed. "Michaelmas is not till the end of the month—and even so you might write to Papa, and ask if we may stay longer. Surely he would not have us come home before we are ready."

The idea of leaving Bath was particularly distressing to Kitty, for Mr. Price had only very recently begun talking of Love to her. While his first confession had suggested that he was not yet prepared to marry, his conversation of late had very much tended in that direction, and Kitty was loath to return to Hertfordshire without having seen the affair to its happy conclusion. Furthermore Mr. Price had been called away to London again, and she was obliged to spend three full days without his company; a lapse she thought inexcusable, given the looming date of her departure.

"I suppose I will ask, my love," Mrs. Bennet agreed sagely, having some faint idea of the reason for Kitty's distress, "but I cannot promise your father will agree. He is a dreadful stubborn man sometimes, you know. It was a great deal of work on my part before he let us come to Bath at all."

"I will not miss Bath overmuch," Mary said, feeling now was the time to assert herself. "It will be good to be home again."

"How brave you are, my dear," Mrs. Bennet sighed, "but you need not put on a false front for _us_."

Mary frowned.

"I wish Mr. Price would come home again," Kitty complained, for this was of course her primary concern at the moment. "It is unaccountable of him to stay away so long."

"London _is_ his home," Mary pointed out irritably, her patience for the conversation exhausted, "and it is when he is here in Bath that he is 'staying away.' I do not know why he continues here when his most urgent business is clearly in Town."

"What business can be more urgent than that which holds him in Bath?" Mrs. Bennet demanded, gesturing at Kitty with a great deal of significance. Her younger daughter blushed prettily. Though she had said nothing to anybody of Mr. Price's confession, Kitty felt that her mother must have some impression of how matters stood between them, which was as it should be; if anyone was to guess at her cherished secret, surely it ought to be her own mother.

She had only yesterday received from Mr. Price a note by the morning post, which had complained again of the tediousness of the business which kept him in London, and had concluded with some very pretty verses of Shakespeare:

_O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? _

_O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, _

_That can sing both high and low: _

_Trip no further, pretty sweeting; _

_Journeys end in lovers meeting,_

_Every wise man's son doth know._

It did not make perfect sense, for he and not she was the one who was roaming, but Kitty did not mind; she only blushed to be called 'Mistress' and 'lover,' and thought very well of herself indeed, for having engaged the devotion of such a gentleman—not only handsome and amiable, but clever and tender as well. How Lydia would fume! She had intended to put the treasured note in her bodice and keep it by her heart, as young ladies always did in novels, but could not make it stay there and not rustle noisily whenever she moved. So instead it sat in her reticule, which she had subsequently taken to keeping always by her side. If only Mr. Price had given her a little locket, on a delicate gold chain! That would be romantic indeed. But for a first effort, she felt, the verses were certainly good enough.

Mr. Price's absence, however, lessened her enjoyment of Bath somewhat; and even the prospect of an evening assembly, given by the Daltons, could not lift her spirits, for it was to be held on the last day of Mr. Price's stay in London, and he could not attend. There would be no point in going if she could not spend the evening with the only gentleman whose company gave her any pleasure, and she thought very hard of the Daltons indeed, to be giving a party when one of their most charming and admired friends was gone away. Why could they not wait one more day?

"People are always coming and going from Bath," Mary said disinterestedly, when Kitty complained of this unfairness. The girls were preparing for bed, Kitty by carefully washing her face and combing her hair, and Mary by reading a chapter or two of _Evelina_. "If the Daltons were to wait until every person of their acquaintance was in the city and could form part of the assembly, they might never be able to hold their party."

"It is only Mr. Price I care about," Kitty said crossly.

"That is rather shortsighted of you." Mary peered critically at her sister, and Kitty, discomfited by the scrutiny, turned away. It would not do to have _Mary_ find out about her understanding with Mr. Price, for she was sure to write to Papa and spoil everything.

"It is not so very shortsighted," she retorted, affecting carelessness. "He is a great favorite of everybody, and his presence would give pleasure to many of the other guests. Certainly he will be very much missed, and the mood of the assembly will suffer for his absence."

"_I_ shall not miss him," Mary replied decidedly.

Kitty bristled at her sister's tone, but swallowed her indignation. "That is because _you_ will be too much engaged with Robert Hart," she replied, as lightly as she could. Mentioning Robert was a certain means of distracting Mary from her disapproval of Mr. Price, and indeed it was successful this time, for Mary gave an ill-mannered "hmph" and returned to her book.

But Kitty's mind was not so easily diverted. "I cannot say I think the Daltons very amiable people," she sniffed. "He is dull and she is foolish, and Miss Dalton has almost no manners at all. I do not see why we must go."

"Nor do I," Mary concurred, in a rare moment of sisterly harmony; "there is nothing I hate more than an evening assembly, unless it is a ball."

"Indeed," Kitty agreed, though she was not listening. "It is certain to be the most boring evening of our lives. I don't imagine I shall enjoy myself at _all_."

Mary thought privately that Kitty was very likely to enjoy herself, Mr. Price or no, for she was the sort of young lady who was much entertained by large gatherings and loud music; but feeling disinclined to an argument, she did not say anything.

The following day was crisply fine, and Mary took herself to Henrietta Park, where she walked along the paths for a time before settling down with _Evelina_. She indeed found the book quite interesting, and rather more agreeable than _The Italian_, for it lacked many of the Gothic details that she had found so silly. But she could not lose herself entirely in the book, for at every sound of approach she would look up, her heart pounding.

She had not seen any of the Harts since her outing with Miss Rosamond on Saturday, and today was Tuesday. She was engaged to go with them to the Assembly Rooms the following evening for a performance of Haydn, and indeed she looked forward to the event; yet the thought of being near Robert Hart again filled her with both pleasure and trepidation. It had been nearly a week since she had enjoyed his company, but such a week! Her mother pressed her every day for news of Robert—had she seen him, had he written to her, had they met in the parks or the book-shop or any of the other places Mrs. Bennet had no interest in visiting? Had he called while Mrs. Bennet and Kitty were out? At every shake of Mary's head, Mrs. Bennet would frown a bit harder. But this was unaccountable of him! Why had he not called or written? What was keeping him so busy? (Mary's guesses that perhaps it was his work that kept him busy were impatiently dismissed.) When, above all things, did he plan to propose?

For the proposal had become absolutely certain in Mrs. Bennet's mind, despite Mary's protests and Robert's failure to appear at Henry Street, ring in hand, and sweep Mary to the nearest church. Mrs. Bennet looked upon the younger Hart son as quite her own possession, for he was the only gentleman who had ever been interested in Mary and she had no intention of letting him go. It was no longer a question of _if_, but _when_; there was no worry that Robert might be indifferent, no fear that he might lack the inclination to marry; there was only impatience for what must be inevitable.

For her own part, Mary was not certain how to feel. She knew that she did not want to marry him, despite all his excellent qualities—not now, at any rate—but she was not certain she would have the power to refuse him if he asked, and therefore she feared very much his asking. Her conversation with Rosamond had eased her anxiety somewhat (at least she knew Robert did not have a persistent sister in his ear, urging him to declare himself), but that young lady's unwillingness to state that Robert was _not_ in love with Mary was a continual worry. Was Rosamond's discretion due to sisterly courtesy, or circumspection? She was his twin; she must know his feelings. Why would she not have spoken unequivocally, knowing how her denial would comfort her friend?

It was for this reason that Mary sat in Henrietta Park, attempting to read but conscious every moment of the risk that she might meet Robert Hart. She was anxious to have the interview over, if indeed it must be had, for she wanted to put her fears behind her; but she also dreaded it, for the awkwardness and unpleasant feelings her refusal must necessarily create on his side, or, if she was not strong enough to hurt him so, the agitation and grief which would be caused to herself by accepting an unwelcome proposal. Her greatest hope was that he would see the sense in her refusal, and they could resume their friendship without much interruption; but Mrs. Hart had said that love often prevailed over rationality, and she could not help feeling her hope was rather remote.

She knew she would see him tomorrow; indeed, she would spend the whole evening with him; but that was at a public concert, in the presence of his whole family, and such a setting was not conducive to passionate declarations. Yet _here_, alone in a quiet park with only the sunshine and the cool breeze to observe them—it was not quite a moonlit balcony, Mary thought half-wryly, but perhaps it might serve. She quailed at the thought.

And so Mary sat, looking up in alarm at every approaching footstep on the path, attempting to compose herself but finding it rather difficult. Once she raised her eyes to find a tall fair-haired gentleman walking purposefully toward her, and very nearly panicked; but as the man drew closer and she found him a stranger, she scolded herself for her foolishness. Was she a creature of sense and reason, or was she to startle like a rabbit every time she saw a man with blond hair glance in her direction? Besides, she reminded herself, she had no _proof_ that Robert loved her, whatever Mrs. Bennet said or Miss Hart did not say. He himself had been quite silent on the subject. Yet she could not help thinking it rather unkind of Robert Hart to be so inscrutable, when only a few weeks earlier—before she had reason to fear his feelings for her—she had often looked forward to the moments she could spend alone with him. She wondered if she would ever again enjoy such peace in his company.

The question was not to be answered today, however; for though she sat in Henrietta Park for well over an hour, Robert Hart never appeared. At length she was obliged to go, her book under her arm, both relieved and disappointed.

"Did you see him?" Mrs. Bennet asked eagerly, when Mary joined her in the drawing room at Henry Street. "Was he there?"

"No, Mamma," her daughter replied dully, setting the book on the table and removing her spencer.

"How provoking! But, my dear, you are to see him tomorrow, and that is something."

"Yes; but I look forward to the concert more for the sake of the music, than the company."

"Indeed," her mother agreed sagely, mistaking her meaning, "I understand your disappointment, my love. Certainly the presence of such company will prevent Robert from speaking, and you will be obliged to sit calmly beside him, and act as though you have no expectation of him. It will be a trial, of course—but then he may very well be impressed with your composure, and _that_ will be the final thing, you know, which will secure his love, and then he will call on Thursday and propose. And then you may go to the Daltons' on Friday as a bride-to-be, and have the envy of every young lady there!"

Or, Mary corrected silently, she may refuse him, and would go to the Daltons' on Friday only to be met with incredulous eyebrows and the sort of clucking sympathy frequently reserved for old maids; for who ever heard of a dull country girl of no family, with no beauty or charm or fortune to recommend her, rejecting the proposal of a gentleman she greatly esteemed (likely the only proposal she would ever receive, certainly the only one so agreeable) simply because she did not _want_ to marry?

But this she kept to herself.

* * *

Mrs. Bennet had elected to make the most of Mary's evening with the Harts, and to thank them for their notice of her daughter, by inviting the entire family to dine with them before the concert; and consequently the Henry Street dining room was alight with laughter and conversation as the Wednesday afternoon sun slipped coolly into evening.

Dr. Hart had Mrs. Bennet's regard not only as the father of Mary's beau and Kitty's particular friend, but as a kind physician who was always ready to listen to Mrs. Bennet's accounts of her "flutterings and spasmings," and to provide not only sympathy but grim diagnoses, which pleased her above all things, and gave her plenty of reason to feel sorry for herself. Kitty was happy to sit between Rosamond and Juliet, talking cheerfully over trifles and resisting the strong temptation, at every moment, to seize Mr. Price's tender note from her reticule and brandish it triumphantly before the eyes of her friends.

Mary, ordinarily pleased to see Robert, felt safe enough for tonight; a family party was not the place for a proposal; but she remained anxious in his company, scanning his features every minute for some hint of his feelings, listening for double-meanings in his conversation, and thinking crossly how much easier things would be if he did not insist upon making them difficult.

Her distraction did not go unnoticed. "Is something the matter, Miss Bennet?" the gentleman asked, gazing at her seriously. "You seem uneasy."

"I am very well," Mary replied, more brusquely than she intended; and Robert, a little surprised, drew back. Mary bit her lip. "Are you looking forward to the concert?" she asked, in a more conciliatory tone.

"It promises to be an excellent performance."

"I have yet to attend one that is _not_ excellent," Mary agreed, warming a little. "I cannot say, however, whether this is merely due to my own inexperienced taste, or whether indeed excellence is a regular feature of Bath's concerts."

"Your taste is not inexperienced. Indeed, you have an advantage over many of the other listeners, for you play yourself, and read music; therefore you know how the music _should_ sound, when the musically illiterate only know how it _does_ sound, and cannot tell the difference between good and bad."

"And do you count yourself among the musically illiterate?" Mary asked archly.

"It is only fair that I do, for I never learned to play. But I am quite content to let my taste be guided by you."

Mary, discomfited by the compliment, turned away and took a large sip of her wine.

"You should rather let your taste be guided by your sister," she said after a moment, her eyes on her plate, "for Miss Hart has the advantage of both playing well, and attending a great many concerts. Surely she is the true expert."

"You may be right, but I cannot willingly give her such authority over me. It would wound my fraternal pride."

Mrs. Bennet, seated at the end of the table, was watching Mary carefully, and turned to Dr. Hart in delight. "Look how closely they talk together!" she exclaimed, not bothering to lower her voice. "Does it not give you great satisfaction, sir, to see your son and my daughter in such intimate confidence? It is such a telling preamble to future happiness!"

Her words, of course, caught the attention of the rest of the table, and a silence fell. Kitty gave a snort of laughter, and hurriedly covered her mouth with her hands; little Juliet was biting her lip to keep from smiling; and Mary, her face hot, turned quickly away from Robert and twisted her hands in her lap. She could feel him fidgeting uncomfortably beside her. The back of her neck prickled with embarrassment.

"We are all most satisfied to count your family among our close friends," Dr. Hart replied diplomatically, glancing at Mary, though her face was still turned away. Mrs. Bennet was a little unsatisfied with his response—there was no need for such discretion at a small family party—but smiled and agreed politely. There was another long pause, in which Mary, giving a wary glance to her right, noticed how very red Robert's face had become.

"Who else did you see at the Pump-room yesterday, Kitty?" Rosamond prompted at last, breaking the spell. Kitty, her giggles sufficiently subsided, was happy to resume their conversation as though nothing had happened. Only Mary and Robert sat in uncomfortable silence.

"Are you to go to the Daltons' on Friday?" Robert asked after a long hesitation.

"I am. Shall I see you there?"

"Certainly."

He ventured nothing more, returning his eyes to his plate, and Mary could not think of anything else to say. She chewed and swallowed her food mechanically, and cursed her mother's thoughtlessness. Why could she not have held her tongue?

The Harts and Mary were obliged to take their leave not long after the meal had finished, and left Kitty and Mrs. Bennet in the vestibule, entreating their friends to enjoy themselves. "You may bring Mary home as late as you please," Mrs. Bennet told Dr. Hart, "for I would not have you end your entertainment early for her sake. If indeed it is more convenient for you to return directly to Hart House, and send Mary home tomorrow morning, that is quite all right. I would not put you to any extra trouble."

Dr. Hart assured the good lady that they would certainly bring Mary home themselves that night, for Henry Street was quite on their way to Widcombe, but thanked her for her consideration; and with a few more kind words, they all climbed into the carriage and set off for the Assembly Rooms.

Mary, sitting between Robert and Juliet, was glad to be away from Henry Street. Though Robert remained stiff and awkward at her side, and had not spoken more than three words to her or anybody since the incident at supper, at least they were safe for now from motherly indiscretion. Rosamond, glancing sympathetically between them, began a supremely inoffensive conversation about the weather, in which her father and sister joined her, effectively covering up the embarrassed silence that stretched between Robert and Mary.

They reached the Assembly Rooms without Mary ever being obliged to open her mouth, for which she was very grateful indeed to the tactful Miss Hart; and as the party descended from the carriage and into the throng of concertgoers, there was no more time for embarrassment. Mary took Robert's arm unthinkingly as they navigated the crowd, for fear of losing her friends. He did not glance at her or give any other sign that he had noticed, aside from drawing her slightly closer, so that she might more easily keep up. Conversation was impossible as they wove through the assembly, doing their best to follow the movements of Dr. Hart and his daughters, and the very impossibility of speech made their silence feel more companionable than uncomfortable.

Mrs. Hart had recovered from her health complaint, and she and her husband awaited them in the vestibule. The two branches of the family met merrily, and there was much talk and conversation to be had (as was usually the case in the company of the elder Mr. Hart). As Rosamond and Anne questioned Mary on _Evelina_, and the others drew Robert into a lively conversation about some mutual acquaintances, the awkwardness of the party began to dissipate, and Mrs. Bennet's careless remark was all but forgotten. Before very long, the doors to the Octagon Room were opened, and the party made their way to their seats.

Mary was more familiar with Haydn than with Boccherini, for his works were more generally performed, and she mentally traced the familiar notes of his Farewell Symphony as they chased each other through the air. The darkness of the music suited her present mood admirably, but she was not disappointed when the song ended and the performers struck up the opening notes of Opus 33, a lighter tune. She particularly enjoyed hearing the string quartets performed, for such sounds she could not recreate on her pianoforte; it had all the charm of novelty.

She had spoken truly when she declared that she had never seen anything but excellence at a Bath concert, and tonight's performance was no disappointment. The music cast a spell that was becoming wonderfully familiar. Mary sank into her chair, allowing her anxieties over Robert and her frustration with her mother to drift the back of her mind; she was not a young lady doing her best to dodge an undesired proposal, nor the put-upon daughter of an ambitious mamma, but a woman enjoying the thing she loved best. She clasped her hands in her lap, regarding the performers with avid eyes, and could not help her sore disappointment when, after a particularly rousing finish, the performers rose for the intermission.

"Shall we take a turn, Miss Bennet?" Robert asked, the first words he had addressed to her since they had left Henry Street. Mary nodded hesitantly, her embarrassment returning, and took the arm he offered her, but was comforted to see Rosamond take her brother's other arm quite naturally, and walk with them into the crowded vestibule.

Whether it was Rosamond's reassuring presence or the cheering effect of the performance, Robert seemed to have entirely forgotten his earlier awkwardness. He immediately embarked on a praise of the concert, with which his sister and Mary readily concurred, and asked Mary very solicitously if she were enjoying herself.

"Very much," she answered, glad for the return of his good spirits, which lifted hers as well. "I must thank your father again for his generosity; I had quite despaired of seeing any concerts while in Bath, and now I have seen three."

"There are more to come, if you care to join us," Rosamond said, smiling at her. "It is so agreeable to give pleasure to one's friends, and you are a most appreciative listener."

"I do not see how anyone could not appreciate such performances," Mary replied. "The musicians are so skillful, and the music itself so superior."

"Yes, but there are many people in Bath who would rather be in a ballroom," Robert said, with a little laugh. "To sit still and simply listen, for long stretches of time—it is something of a lost art."

"Indeed there cannot be enough said for the virtues of listening," Mary agreed. "Too many people prefer to talk a great deal of nonsense instead of listening to a shred of sense. I much prefer concerts to balls and parties. As amusements go, a concert is a much better use of time than any other."

She would have expanded upon the subject, but at that moment they were interrupted by Mrs. Carpenter, who approached them and bid the twins a very pleasant evening. "And here you are again, Miss Bennet," she added smilingly, "and I daresay you could not bear to be anywhere else—unless perhaps it were somewhere rather more private, and that is understandable! Shall I ask Miss Hart to take a turn with me?"

"On the contrary, madam," Mary stammered, glancing up at Robert in alarm, "I am quite content."

"Oh, to be sure," Mrs. Carpenter agreed; "who would not be content, under such circumstances? You need not be coy, Miss Bennet, for I know very well what it is to be young and in love. I was not always an old married lady, you know." She gave a wink which Mary found rather grotesque. "Come, Miss Hart, we must leave them alone; there can be no impropriety in their taking a turn alone together, in front of everybody."

Miss Hart resisted admirably, sensing Mary's agitation (and Robert's as well), but Mrs. Carpenter would not be denied; she seemed Mrs. Bennet's staunchest ally in the campaign to see Robert and Mary wed. Indeed, as a lady with two happily married children and two more who were sure to marry well, Mrs. Carpenter's greatest joys in life consisted of talking about her own offspring, and meddling with other peoples'. She looked forward very much to a Bennet-Hart wedding, for Mary's plainness and apparent timidity (which was in fact simple distaste for society) had endeared her to the lady. "Come, come, Miss Hart," she insisted cheerfully, "we must let them alone; they will be happier when we let them alone." So at last Rosamond was obliged to take the plump arm which was offered her and, giving her brother and Mary a very encouraging smile, allowed herself to be led away, Mrs. Carpenter chattering noisily in her ear.

Left alone, confronted so abruptly with the matter which lay unspoken between them, Mary and Robert found themselves quite unable to meet each others' eyes. Mary realized that she was still clutching Robert's arm, and hurriedly released it; too late she realized how this might be interpreted.

"Well," the gentleman said, after a moment, "let us keep walking."

They walked on together in dull silence. Mary glanced at Robert carefully, only to find him very red-faced indeed and looking rather—she could not find a word to describe his expression. He looked perturbed, but also grave; embarrassed, but also determined. Her heart sank. He looked like a man who might propose at any moment. She steeled herself for the inevitable question, and tried to mentally compose a speech which might gentle her rebuff, while also making plain the rationality behind her refusal. She could not think of anything adequate.

They walked until they had reached a small alcove, a little sheltered from the rest of the room, though still plainly visible to anyone who cared to glance in their direction. Here Robert stopped, and turned to her. Mary, reminding herself that she was a person of sense and reason, who believed firmly that matters such as love and marriage ought to be dealt with logically, raised her eyes to meet his.

"Miss Bennet," Robert began haltingly, "this is not the moment to say any of the things I must say to you; there are only a few minutes until the concert resumes, and it would not be fair of me to speak when you will not have ample time to respond."

"You are very just, sir," Mary replied, though she felt her hands were shaking. Robert gave a grave nod.

"But though we cannot do so now, it is plain that we must have a conversation. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that there are things unsaid between us, which ought to be brought into the open. Do you agree?"

"I do."

"I am afraid I cannot call tomorrow, for I will be assisting my father in the surgery all day and my time is not my own. However, I would beg of you to reserve for me a few minutes of your time on Friday, when we will meet at the Daltons' assembly. There we can at least begin our conversation, and if we find that there are other matters which must be settled as a result of this first discussion, we can arrange to speak again. Is this agreeable to you?"

"Certainly," Mary said faintly. It was by far the most dispassionate conversation she had ever had with Robert, and though she approved of his frankness and prudence upon a subject usually characterized by pointless ardor, she could not help wishing a little for some humor in his voice, or mockery in his eyes, that would remind her of the friend she knew. This, she imagined, must be how he spoke to patients: clinically and carefully. She did not find it as reassuring as she had imagined.

As though he read her thoughts, Robert gave her a very small smile and—to her shock—reached out to touch her hand gently. "Your hands are shaking," he said, more quietly. "I hope I am not—" But he broke off, and looked away. "We should return to the Octagon Room. The performance will begin again soon."

There was indeed a movement beginning towards the open doors, and Mary unconsciously took the arm Robert held out for her as they left their little alcove. Her heart was racing. She felt like a prisoner whose date of execution had been set, and though she chastised herself for this foolishly maudlin view, she could not help thinking of the Daltons' assembly with more than a little trepidation. At least now, she consoled herself, she would have a set timeframe in which to prepare a kind yet sensible rejection, which would hopefully make clear her disinclination to marry while preserving the friendship that had blossomed between them.

The task seemed Herculean.

Mary was so much lost in thought that she could not properly enjoy the rest of the concert; her mind kept returning to Robert's words, and her anxiety over the coming conversation. She wondered what he had begun to say before interrupting himself; she wondered if his proposal would be as unemotional as his preamble had been. Perhaps _that_ would not be so bad.

Or perhaps, she thought despairingly, it would be completely dreadful. However he phrased the question, her answer would only give pain to one she esteemed above anybody else—or, in satisfying his wishes, give pain to herself. There was no other way in which to consider the matter. Someone was to be made unhappy, and though she considered an ill-timed marriage to be a greater evil than a rejected proposal (for it would certainly last longer), she could not be easy either way. And then there was her mother to consider: her disappointment and anger, her vexation at having boasted of marrying off her most difficult daughter only to see all her plans come to naught. And Kitty would shake her head and call Mary an old maid, and laugh at her; and Rosamond would of course be hurt on her brother's behalf, though she had some hint of Mary's feelings already. There would be no more invitations from Dr. Hart, no more mornings spent at the Hart House pianoforte. Mary bit her lip angrily. How unfair it was she was obliged to consider the feelings of so many other people, when the matter lay entirely between herself and Robert.

The concert ended far sooner than she wished, and Mary regretted very much her distraction. Rosamond, sitting on one side of her, looked quite charmed with the performance; but in glancing at Robert, Mary saw her own preoccupation reflected in his furrowed brow. She could not help feeling glad that it was not only _her_ evening which had been spoilt, though she knew this was unkind of her.

The party had made their way out to the street before Mary was entirely aware of her surroundings, and waited for their carriage. Juliet was yawning, as ever; and Mrs. Hart, tucked under her husband's strong warm arm, seemed almost completely asleep on her feet. Robert was uncommunicative, focusing his gaze on the dark sky above them. Rosamond was speaking quietly with her father. Mary, remembering how enchanted she had been the last time she stood upon these stones beneath the stars, felt rather miserable.

"Did you enjoy the concert, Miss Bennet?" Theodore Hart asked, startling her.

"Very much," she replied without thinking.

"My brother and sisters tell me they have enjoyed your company these past evenings—so much so that they are considering rescinding my standing invitation, and offering it to you. I understand you are a far more agreeable concertgoer than I am."

"She does not talk so much during the performance," Juliet giggled, though she yawned halfway through her sentence.

"I have never talked during a performance," Theodore replied in mock indignation, "unless it is to expound upon someone else's rudeness in doing so. Such insolence, I feel, must not be tolerated; it is important to point it out the moment it happens, so as to make clear that it must not happen again. Do you not agree, Miss Bennet?"

Mary was a little discomfited by his address. She was indeed often rather discomfited by the elder Hart brother, for she could never tell entirely when he was joking, and if so, how she ought to respond so as neither to encourage nor offend him (she certainly could not scold him as she did Kitty). "Good manners are always important," she said, thinking it the most diplomatic response.

"Let Miss Bennet alone, Theo," Robert interjected suddenly, rather sharply. "It is too late at night for your nonsense."

"You wound me, little brother," Theodore sighed, but though he did not seem at all wounded, he obligingly held his tongue.

Mr. Hart's carriage arrived before his father's, and Mrs. Hart shook herself awake long enough to accompany her husband's bow to Mary with a kind farewell. The rest of the party waited only another minute or two before their carriage came, and they drove home in silence, for the two sisters already dozed heavily upon Robert's shoulders. Mary did not fall asleep this time, but watched the dark city pass by her window with a strange kind of sadness. Glancing across the carriage, she was startled to find Robert watching her; upon meeting her gaze, he cleared his throat and looked away.

Dr. Hart hoped that Miss Bennet would join them again, and wished her a very pleasant evening, and gave his kindest compliments to her mother and sister; and Mary declared her sincere gratitude as Robert helped her down from the carriage and walked with her again to the door of Henry Street.

They paused again outside the door, but this time there was no easy conversation or cheerful farewell.

"I will see you on Friday," Robert said at last. "Miss Bennet—Mary—" He stopped and repeated, "I will see you on Friday, and we will speak then."

"Goodnight, Mr. Hart," Mary answered.

"Goodnight, Miss Bennet." And he was gone.

* * *

Mrs. Bennet was not surprised to learn that the concert had not produced the looked-for engagement, for she had not really expected it. Nor was she alarmed by Mary's pale, anxious face and tired eyes the next morning, for she thought it quite natural that a young lady in love look rather unhealthy. She was a little vexed at Mary's reticence on the subject of the concert, for her daughter would say only that it was an enjoyable evening. But she supposed the _particulars_ were not really important.

Thursday was spent at home, and was a thoroughly dull day. Mary was ill-tempered because she had not slept well, and Kitty was ill-tempered because Mr. Price was away. Only Mrs. Bennet was cheerful, seeing in her girls the encouraging signs of youthful devotion, and feeling quite secure that this devotion was returned.

Kitty was a little happier on Friday, when it came time to dress to go to the Daltons'; for she always took pleasure in putting on fine clothes, and besides she had a new pink muslin which would look perfect with her white cashmere shawl and plain gold necklace. But she made certain to carry her reticule with her, so that she could glance at the note inside it at intervals, and miss Mr. Price secretly and terribly. This sort of sentimental behavior, she felt, was only fitting for a fashionable girl with a dashing lover.

"Do cheer up, Mary," Kitty rebuked her sister as they dressed, taking care not to sound too cheerful herself. "I do not see why you are so glum—you will spend the entire evening with Robert Hart."

Somehow this did not seem to lift Mary's spirits. Indeed, the elder sister only gave a little sigh, and touched her forehead with one hand, as though suffering from a headache.

"But you cannot wear _that_!" Kitty cried, having turned around to ask Mary to fasten the top buttons on her gown. Mary was wearing her plain dark blue dress, with the high neckline and the long sleeves. "We are not spending the day in the schoolroom, Mary, nor baking bread in the scullery; you must at least try and look pretty. Whatever will Robert think?"

In fact Mary had chosen the dress specifically for its plainness, in hopes that it might prevent Robert from making his proposal. Though she had no illusions about her own charms, nor fear that by dressing well she might look _too_ enchanting and be flooded with protestations of love from all quarters, she thought it wise to at least control whatever variables she could. The soft candlelight, the gentle murmur of conversation, the wine, the gleaming moon; all of these things would contribute to create an atmosphere far more idyllic than Mary would like. If she could subvert some of this ambiance by looking even plainer than usual, then so much the better.

But Kitty was determined that her sister would not leave the house dressed like a governess, and Mrs. Bennet, coming in to help Kitty with her hair, was similarly aghast. "Whatever are you wearing that for, child?" she demanded, staring at Mary as though her daughter had developed some hideous deformity. "You must dress immediately! What on earth has possessed you?"

"I have nothing else to wear," Mary protested, but it was no use. Kitty's wardrobe was flung open, and Mrs. Bennet rifled through its contents with enviable speed. Even Kitty, who ordinarily resented the use of her things by persons not herself, was sifting through her jewelry-chest.

"Here is a yellow silk," Mrs. Bennet declared, "or a white muslin—that would do very well."

"You may borrow my pearls," Kitty offered magnanimously, holding them aloft. "They would look pretty with the yellow."

"Only dress quickly, or we shall be late!" Mrs. Bennet urged, brandishing the yellow silk. Mary regarded her with wide despairing eyes, and opened her mouth to protest; but at last she deemed it fruitless. She seized the gown very ill-naturedly, and flung it upon her own bed with a forcefulness that made Kitty squeal indignantly.

"I do not see why I may not be allowed to choose my own clothes," Mary complained.

"We would allow you to choose if you would make better choices, my girl," her mother retorted, by now fully occupied with Kitty's _chignon_. Mary grumbled, but did as she was bidden.

Mary was at least quick about her toilette, for she had no vanity to speak of, and so the coachman was obliged to wait only a few extra minutes until the ladies emerged in a great bustle of muslin and silk. A silent carriage-ride brought them to the Daltons' door in Queen Square, and they joined the small stream of guests making their way up the front stairs and into the warmly lit vestibule.

Their first duty was of course to greet their hostess, but though Mrs. Dalton smiled and offered her kindest compliments to the Miss Bennets, the burden of politeness fell wholly upon Mrs. Bennet; neither of the sisters paid their hostess any attention. Kitty was gazing about the company in vexation, bitterly regretting the absence of Mr. Price and wondering how she was to be entertained without him. Mary, too, was peering into the drawing room beyond the vestibule, her fear having solidified into something resembling determination. She wished only to see Robert Hart, and speak with him, and know at last whether they would remain friends. But there was no sign of him anywhere. It was plain that the family had not arrived yet.

"There is nobody here worth talking to," Kitty whispered in Mary's ear, disgusted.

Mary could not help but concur.

Another ten minutes, however, brought the Fitzwilliams to the party, which cheered them both; Kitty was quite fond of Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who was amiable and lively, and Mary approved of the Colonel's steady character and quiet good sense. They sat in pleasant conversation for a short time, before the Finches arrived. They were a formidable sight: the two proud parents and their seven offspring, the four sisters a chattering fashion plate, and the two elder brothers laughing merrily and calling genial greetings to their friends as they entered the room. Only Mr. Oliver Finch was quiet, though the smile on his face seemed genuine.

"Does not Mr. Bertram look very handsome in his uniform?" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, regarding the middle brother admiringly.

"Indeed," Mrs. Fitzwilliam agreed, "I never think a man handsome unless he is in a red coat." She gave her husband an affectionate smile, and linked her arm with his.

It was only natural that the Finches come and talk with their cousin, and before long the Bennets were enveloped by a cheerful family party. This was all very much to Kitty's taste, and she nearly forgot to miss Mr. Price, so pleased was she with her present company. But Mary's disposition was not suited to noisy talk and jollity at the best of times, and now, as her apprehension grew with every passing moment, she wished very much that they would all be quiet. She found some solace in the presence of Oliver Finch beside her, for he asked her only whether she was well, and whether she were enjoying Bath—both questions quickly answered—before lapsing into what she considered a very welcome silence.

But her partial peace could not last. There were familiar voices in the vestibule, and a moment later Dr. Hart and his children appeared in the doorway.

"Now we shall be a merry company indeed," Cecilia Finch declared gladly. Mary, watching Robert's face—as drawn and uneasy as her own—did not think so. Anxiety bloomed in her stomach.

Dr. Hart and his elder son were immediately invited to join a game of whist which was beginning, and Miss Juliet, spying some young friends of hers across the room, hurried to join them. But Rosamond and Anne smilingly obeyed the animated summons of Mrs. Fitzwilliam and the Miss Finches, and Robert followed them, a tall grave shadow.

There were of course greetings to be made, and lively conversation to be had, but Mary was not aware of any of it; she could only hear her own heart beating. When would Robert speak to her? He had taken the place beside his sister (invoking a disgruntled glance from Mrs. Bennet), and had not yet met Mary's eyes. She reminded herself of her belief in sense and reason, and scolded herself for allowing her nerves to get the better of her. There was nothing to fear, she told herself firmly; if Robert was the gentleman she believed him to be, he would understand her feelings. But she could not help imagining the pain that would surely show in his features.

At length, their small party dissipated. The younger Miss Finches went to join Juliet and her friends, as Mrs. Bennet sought out Mrs. Carpenter and Mrs. Fielding and several other married ladies of her acquaintance. Kitty and Rosamond stood to take a turn about the room, joined by Oliver Finch, who blushingly escorted one young lady upon each arm. The Fitzwilliams and Mrs. Hart had gone to watch the whist game, and it was only Mary and Robert left alone together.

"Miss Bennet," Robert said, very quietly, "will you walk with me?"

Mary swallowed, and nodded.

"I must tell you, my dear Mrs. Bennet," Mrs. Carpenter was reporting eagerly, watching Mary and Robert's progress across the room, "that they were quite inseparable at the Assembly Rooms on Wednesday. They sat together and walked together, and during the intermission I saw them standing alone, a little apart from everyone else, talking very _seriously_."

"She says they are not engaged," Mrs. Bennet said critically, her own gaze following Mrs. Carpenter's. "But I imagine that shall change quite soon."

"Indeed, in a matter of minutes, if his look is anything to go by," Mrs. Carpenter assured her with a knowing smile. The two ladies sighed together in mutual satisfaction. But their other friends were not interested in the matrimonial hopes of the eldest Miss Bennet, who was not nearly so agreeable as her younger sister, and the conversation very soon shifted to matters of more common interest.

Robert led Mary out of the drawing room and into the dining room just beyond, which was deserted, though the candles were lit and the long table stood ready for supper. It was quieter here, the sounds of the party muffled, and Mary's breath sounded very loud to her in the sudden stillness. Robert, too, seemed acutely aware of their seclusion, as he paced over to the tall window which looked into the garden. She followed him. The sun had just set and there was a cool blue light on the grass and trees.

"Mr. Hart—" Mary started, thinking quite suddenly that she might as well be the first to speak her piece. But Robert had had the same thought, as he turned to her with "Miss Bennet—"

They paused, and regarded each other awkwardly. "Forgive me," Mary said at last. "Please, continue."

Robert took a deep breath and nodded, though he looked rather unsure.

"Miss Bennet," he began, with what Mary thought admirable equanimity, "I have been thinking very seriously of what I wanted to say to you. I consider you a woman who appreciates sincerity, which is fortunate, as I have not the skill for pretty speeches. I think it best that I say what I must as simply as possible."

Mary nodded, though she wished that he would stop describing _how_ he would say it and merely say it. But she did not interrupt.

"You know, Miss Bennet, that I hold you in the highest esteem, and that I greatly value the time we spend together. And," he added, looking less composed, "I have become aware that there are certain—expectations of our relationship. A man and a woman can never enjoy a close friendship without engendering certain opinions from others, and raising very natural questions about—" He reddened. "About love, and marriage, and such things."

"Sir—" Mary interrupted hurriedly, but Robert raised a hand to stop her.

"Pray, let me finish, Mary, and then you may say whatever you like. I am not surprised that these questions have arisen among our own friends and family. You cannot be unaware of the particular attention which I habitually pay to you, which you have always seemed happy to reciprocate. _But_," he added, looking suddenly very unsure, "I am very afraid, and terribly sorry, that I could not think of entering into an engagement with you, at this time."

He stopped. This was not at all what Mary had expected, and she was so startled that it took her a moment to gather her wits. Robert seemed rather distressed by her silence.

"It is not due to any fault of yours, Mary," he said, a tinge of desperation in his voice. "I find your company more satisfying than that of any other young lady, and indeed if I _were_ to marry, I could not think of anybody I would rather choose. My feelings for you—" He cut himself off. "But I am twenty years old; I have not the income to support a wife, nor, frankly, have I the desire to marry. I am too young and thoughtless to make a worthy husband. I know I have told you so, but that was before I had any thought that you might—that you might have any expectation of me. I am terribly sorry, Mary," he said again, pleadingly. "Please believe me when I say that my intention was never to hurt you, or foster any hopes which I could only disappoint."

His words were coming faster than Mary had ever heard them, and she could scarcely reconcile the composed, clever Robert Hart with this anxious figure, whose worry showed plainly in his usually calm expression. The entire situation was so absurd that Mary, who had intended to greet the situation with solemn logic, could not help giving a very uncharacteristic giggle, which she hastily smothered with her hand. Robert stared at her. She stared back.

"Are you well?" he asked dumbly.

"Do you mean," said she, instead of answering, "that you do _not_ intend to propose?"

Robert continued to stare. "No," he said, slowly.

Mary's relief threatened to overwhelm her, and she blindly sank into the chair behind her. "May I speak?"

"Of course." He took a seat in the chair opposite hers, the window between them.

"I have been thinking very seriously as well, Mr. Hart. My mother and sister seem to count it as certain that we will marry; but as I have told you before, I cannot now see myself in the role of a wife—even," she added, a little shyly, "_your_ wife. I have carefully considered all the many points which spoke in favor of our marriage, and attempted to convince myself that accepting you would be the wisest course of action, but ultimately concluded that it is impossible at this time. While I am aware that our habits and tempers are particularly well-suited, and that I could very easily fall in love with you if I were so disposed, the fact remains that a marriage made at my current stage of life would only be an unhappy one. I am not prepared to give up my solitude, to manage my own household, to meld my way of life to that of another. As you know, I think it highly unwise to marry when one is not prepared to do so, even if there is love in the case, and I did believe that you shared my feelings. Yet my mother's firm belief in your intentions had convinced me at last that you _would_ propose, and I have spent the last several days hoping very earnestly that you would not."

A little smile began to quirk at the corner of Robert's mouth. "I had thought so initially; but everyone else seemed to disagree, and you were always so embarrassed when it was mentioned."

"Embarrassed for your sake," Mary corrected him. "It vexed me to have everyone impressing the idea upon us, when I knew that my only thought, given those feelings which I have already mentioned, was of refusal. I did not want to hurt you, or to lose your friendship."

"Then our worries were shared. My greatest fear, in speaking to you, was that you would not wish to maintain our acquaintance upon even the most distant terms."

Mary smiled at him, and he returned it unabashedly. "And here we are still friends; and, I should like to think, this conversation has improved the substance of our bond by obliging us to be perfectly frank regarding our feelings, and thus strengthening our understanding of one another. I was correct, you see, in believing that such emotions ought to be dealt with directly and honestly, and that such undesirable feelings as infatuation and desire ought to be left out of the question. It is only fair that each of us has a clear understanding of where we stand with the other."

"Then tell me—for I believe I have told you—exactly where I stand in your regard."

Mary's smile dropped, and she flushed. This, she thought, was a little unkind of him; but Robert was grinning at her.

"You are," she said carefully, doing her best to sound disinterested, "the gentleman whose company I prefer over any other, and the only one I should choose to marry, were I so inclined. But I am _not_ so inclined, at this point in time."

"And you," Robert replied, "to emphasize the point, are the most interesting lady of my acquaintance, if not the most amiable. I could quite happily spend my life with you. If I wished to marry, I could look no farther. But I do not."

"Thank you," Mary said primly, choosing to consider his words a compliment.

They sat in comfortable silence for another moment, enjoying their mutual relief, before her friend murmured something about returning to the party. Upon rising from her chair, Mary was startled to find herself suddenly caught in his embrace. Robert's arms were warm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him unthinkingly despite herself. He released her after only an instant.

"That is an expression of my gratitude for your understanding," Robert explained solemnly, though there was laughter in his eyes. "I am glad we are friends, Mary."

"In the interest of fairness and uniformity," Mary replied, feeling lighter than she had in days, "I suppose I shall have to begin calling you Robert, at least when we are alone together."

"Your mother will certainly approve."

Mrs. Bennet's opinion had not occurred to Mary, and she frowned. "She will be furious when I tell her of our conversation. She has quite set her heart on our marriage."

"Then do not tell her what we have said," Robert suggested easily, looping her arm though his. "If it makes her happy to think we are in love, then let her think so. I shall continue to invite you to concerts, and dance with you at balls, and she will watch gladly. Then in a month or two you will leave Bath, and she will forget me and find some other beau for you in Hertfordshire. Though," he added good naturedly, his relief making him voluble, "I know that you will never enjoy another gentleman's company as you enjoy mine."

Mary thought privately that this was in fact quite likely, though Robert was only teasing. She also thought it quite unlikely that any other gentleman would ever enjoy _her_ company as Robert did.

"Besides," he went on, "this does not mean we will _never_ marry. While I feel myself unripe for marriage now, I will likely feel quite differently in time. And you have already told me that you plan to marry someday."

"I do," Mary affirmed. She was glad of his arm supporting her as they walked, for her knees still felt rather weak with lingering anxiety and relief.

"Let us agree, then, that we will remain friends for now; and every so often we will consult, and decide whether we are ready to fall in love with each other. In the spirit of dealing directly and honestly with our emotions," he added teasingly.

"I find your proposal quite satisfying."

"No, my Mary," Robert corrected her playfully, "I have _not_ proposed; that is what we have been discussing all this time."

He then pushed open the door to the drawing room, and the noise of the assembly rushed to greet them. Nobody paid them much attention as they rejoined the party. Mrs. Bennet was ecstatic to see the expressions of naked gladness and contentment upon both their faces, and concluded that the question must _surely_ have been asked, and the answer must _surely_ have been given. In delight, she occupied herself until supper with mentally ordering Mary's wedding-clothes, and considering the available houses she knew of, in both Meryton and Bath, where the happy couple could set up house together.

* * *

Kitty had struggled with her determination to be bored by the evening; for however much one regrets the absence of a handsome beau, it is difficult not to enjoy the company of lively friends and acquaintances, who have no other objective but amusement, and no thought that one among them might be attempting to feel very maudlin and sad. Rosamond had talked to her so pleasantly that Kitty had gradually forgotten that Mr. Price was in London, and had responded to her friend with all her usual brightness, as they walked with Oliver Finch among the company, and stopped every so often to talk for a moment with some acquaintance or other.

This happy distraction had lasted only until Dr. Hart, who was good-naturedly beating Colonel Fitzwilliam at whist, entreated his fond daughter to join them at the table and so consolidate the family's fortunes; and Rosamond, laughingly protesting that she may very well undo all his hard work, nevertheless went to sit by her father and brother and sister-in-law. This left Kitty alone with Oliver Finch. She wished very much to excuse herself and find some more vivacious company, but she felt so sorry for the poor gentleman (deserted as he was by his dearest love) that she walked with him a little longer, and endeavored to be amiable. At least, in Mr. Finch's embarrassed silences and halting attempts at conversation, she had the luxury of missing spirited Mr. Price to her heart's content.

"Is this not a lovely evening?" she asked pleasantly.

"Indeed," he replied quietly.

"I do not think there is anything nicer than having all of one's friends together in one place. Everyone is so happy and cheerful, and glad to be together."

"It is very agreeable."

"It seems to me strange that there are not such assemblies _every_ night," she went on, "for every time one ends, everybody is so satisfied and someone declares that we must do this again very soon, and then it is a whole fortnight until it occurs to anybody. Why do we not simply gather every evening, and sit and talk together and play cards? It would be far preferable to sitting alone at home every other night."

The gentleman made no reply, and Kitty, irritated by this seeming ingratitude for her efforts on his behalf, looked up at him. "Do you not think so?" she persisted.

Mr. Finch hesitated. "I think," he answered slowly, after a long moment, "that your standards for entertainment are rather higher than my own. I do not think it at all unpleasant to enjoy a few quiet nights at home."

"That is perhaps due to your own circumstances," Kitty said carelessly, determined to be agreeable. "Evenings at _your_ home must be different than evenings at _mine_, for you have several amiable brothers and sisters, and you must always make such a merry family party. But I have only Mamma and Mary (and Papa when we are at Longbourn) and it is always so tedious; nobody says anything interesting and Mary lectures me unbearably at the slightest provocation. I always prefer other company to that of my family."

Mr. Finch looked down at her, and to her surprise she saw the hint of a smile about his serious mouth. "I have not had the honor of conversing much with your sister," he said, "but it sounds to me as though you are rather at odds with her."

"Oh, always," Kitty agreed readily. "But it is her own fault, for being so dreadfully prosy and dull, and nagging me simply because she is the elder sister and reads so many dreary books. Have your siblings never nagged you or ordered you about?"

He looked startled at the question, and there was another long silence during which Kitty wondered if he was upset by her familiarity. But, "No," Mr. Finch said at last, rather thoughtfully, "I believe I am always the one who annoys them with my criticisms. I suppose it is the lot of the preacher."

Kitty giggled. "I cannot imagine _you_ criticizing anybody, Mr. Finch, for you are so quiet and shy. Forgive me," she added hastily, seeing him redden and look away. "I did not mean to offend you."

"I am not offended," he replied, but he said nothing else and did not meet her eyes. The friendliness between them seemed to have faded and they walked along in thick silence.

Kitty was beginning to think that she had quite done her duty by Oliver Finch, and was prepared to go seek out one of the Hart sisters or some other more engaging friend, when by a little accident her foot caught on a place where the carpet had been rucked up, causing her to trip inelegantly over its folds. She stumbled and was caught by Mr. Finch, who gripped her sturdily about the waist before she could make a most embarrassing fall, and deposited her carefully upon a nearby divan. The only casualty of the incident was her reticule, which had swung from her wrist and onto the floor, spilling its contents.

"Are you injured, Miss Bennet?" Mr. Finch asked, with an urgency that surprised her. Kitty, who despite all her faults was a very good-natured girl without pride or pretension, only laughed and shook her head.

"How clumsy I am!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I am obliged to you for your swiftness, or I should have fallen flat in front of everybody, and been the laughingstock of Bath."

The thought made her laugh some more, though Mr. Finch was not laughing with her; having satisfied himself that she was unharmed, he had knelt to pick up her reticule. Kitty smoothed her skirts and glanced across the assembly to see if anybody had noticed her stumble. The rest of the company seemed wholly absorbed in their own pursuits, laughing and talking, and, as the hour drew closer to supper, casting hopeful glances in the direction of the dining room.

She looked back at Mr. Finch, and the smile dropped from her face. In gathering the contents of her bag, he had come across the cherished note from Mr. Price, and he was frozen, reading it with an expression of surprise and consternation.

Kitty was grasped by alarm, and had to stop herself from dashing forward and snatching the paper from his hands. Mr. Price had so emphasized his desire for discretion; and now his love-letter to her was in the hands of a gentleman who might very well carry the news to Miss Hart, who might very well carry it to her brothers and sisters, who might spread it all over Bath—and before she knew it, someone (Mary, perhaps, or Colonel Fitzwilliam) would write eagerly to Mr. Bennet or even Mr. Darcy, who would immediately insist upon being introduced to the gentleman who had captured Kitty's heart; and Kitty knew very well that Mr. Price, however flawless _she_ found him, would certainly not satisfy the disapproving judgments of her father and brothers-in-law. He was too amiable and lively for _their_ tastes.

(It had not occurred to Kitty—or if it had, she had chosen not to think about it—that, if she truly intended to marry Mr. Price in a grand wedding with all of her friends and family in attendance, then certainly he would sooner or later have to be introduced to her family as her fiancé. This, perhaps, was a matter to be considered later, once she had safely secured not only his love but also his firm promise.)

Her panic threatened to overwhelm her, for Kitty was not a girl who managed well in tense circumstances. "That is mine," she snapped, holding out her hand for the letter.

Oliver Finch looked up at her, startled, and immediately flushed. "Forgive me," he said, his voice equally low. "I did not mean—" He stopped. "It is from Mr. Price?"

"No," Kitty said immediately, and then "Yes." She hesitated. "It is not—it is not mine. That is, it _is_ mine, but it is not for me—"

"I do not understand."

Nor do I, Kitty thought helplessly, but she said only "Give it to me. You should not have read it."

Mr. Finch did as she bid him, taking the seat beside her on the divan. "You are right; I should not."

Kitty was a little appeased by this, tucking the note safely into her reticule again. "And," she added, "you must not tell anybody what you have read."

There was concern in all his looks as he gazed at her. "I am afraid I do not understand."

"What is there to understand?" Kitty said sharply. "Nobody must know, or I am sure it will all be ruined!"

He hesitated, looking out over the rest of the party, before turning to her again. "There is nothing _morally_ reprehensible in such a note," he said carefully. "Only some expressions of—of tenderness." He swallowed. "If this is truly how matters stand between you and that gentleman, why this need for secrecy? Your friends and family would be glad to know of your happiness."

"It is not so simple as that," Kitty huffed.

"Why not?"

She glared at him. "Forgive me," Oliver Finch said again. "But it does seem as though it—well, as though it ought to be simple."

"What can you know of it?" Kitty demanded, her temper lost. "It is nothing to do with _you_, sir, nor with anybody else, and you can have no opinion on the subject. I wish everybody would stop trying to tell me what I _ought_ to be doing! Mary does not know anything; nor does Rosamond; and certainly I shall not be lectured by a gentleman who has attached himself to a woman who does not share his regard, and has set her sights entirely upon someone else; is _that_ simplicity, Mr. Finch?"

She paused, face hot, a little shocked by her own unkindness; but Mr. Finch looked more startled than wounded, and said only "I am sorry to have offended you, Miss Bennet."

Kitty bit her lip. "I am sorry to have spoken so," she replied, a little quieter. "But I must—you must excuse me—" She stared out at the party, searching for some excuse to leave him, and caught sight of Mary and Robert walking together. "I must go talk with my sister," she said hurriedly. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Finch, and I do hope you enjoy your evening."

"Miss Bennet."

"I must go, sir," she repeated, standing swiftly, her heart pounding. "Pray do not tell anyone what you have read, and let us not speak of this again."

And without looking at him, she hurried across the room, and caught up Robert Hart's free arm with a forced exuberance that surprised not only him, but herself as well. "Good evening," she said breathlessly, beaming at Robert and her sister. "Wherever have you two been?"

* * *

Mrs. Bennet counted the evening as a triumph, for though Mr. Price had been absent, she firmly believed that Mary was now safely engaged to Robert Hart; and the question of Mary's ability to attract a gentleman having been one of her greatest worries since the marriage of her two eldest, she could not be more relieved. "Such amiable people!" she cried blissfully, as they rode home in the carriage. "Such a charming assembly! I daresay we could not have spent the evening better. Did you enjoy yourself, Mary my dear?"

"I did," Mary replied, looking more at ease than she had in days.

"I thought you would," her mother said significantly, patting Mary's arm with affection.

"So did I," Kitty put in, for though she was still rather vexed by her conversation with Mr. Finch, she had enjoyed the rest of the evening and privately shared her mother's suspicions regarding Mary and Robert.

"That is good, my love," Mrs. Bennet said; "and tomorrow I shall write to your father, and recommend that we stay a good deal later than we had planned; for I believe we shall find that there is still _much_ for us to do in Bath."

She winked at Kitty, who giggled; and Mary, who was quite aware of her mother's meaning but no longer disturbed by it, only gave a little smile and gazed out of the window.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** Okay, I understand the PM thing now. I was thinking you should be able to message someone directly from your inbox if you knew their screen name, as in an email system or Facebook, not that you had to go through someone's profile. Thank you to everyone who helped me out. Second thing I have to share: I got into grad school! Three grad schools, actually, which means I have a big daunting decision to make within the next two-ish weeks, but having surplus options is better than having none. I do apologize for being a bit late with this chapter, but this has been a busy busy month. Thank you for your patience and your reviews! I love reading what you guys have to say.

* * *

_12 September 1797_

_Longbourn House_

_Meryton, Hertfordshire_

_My cherished wife,_

_I received your letter of the 3__rd__ with great happiness, for it is always agreeable to me to have some reminder of my wife's cheerful temperament, without being obliged to hear in person all the noisy expressions of said temperament. I am glad to know that your nerves are giving you no trouble of late, as I have indeed been very concerned about them, and so has everybody else here in Meryton. Your supposition that it is the healing effect of the Roman Baths is quite likely correct; but your statement that we ought to move to Bath permanently so that you can take the waters year-round was surely meant as merely an amusing bit of hyperbole, which I shall indulge, but not answer._

_I am similarly unconvinced that it is necessary for you and our daughters to remain in Bath until Christmas. This, too, must have been meant as a witticism—have you taken up that offensive Bath custom of "quizzing"? It is my opinion that your stay has already been a generous one, allowing the girls to see as much of the world as can possibly interest them, and giving them the opportunity to grow supremely sick of their Bath friends. The city can hold no more wonders for them. However, in deference to the pleading tone of your letter, I will agree that perhaps you might stay until near the end of October—another full month, Mrs. Bennet, and so you cannot claim that I am cruel and ungenerous now!_

_On a more serious note, my dear, I would caution you to remember my instructions to you: I will not approve of any marriages until I have seen and met the suitors myself (if such suitors there truly be; I am sure at least half of that jubilant description was invented). I remind you that you, my dove, are as easily charmed as a girl of seventeen—a trait which I much appreciated when I was pressing my own suit upon you so many years ago, but which I now find alarming when applied to the cases of our children. However gallant, however amiable, however clever are these gentlemen, _you_ are not the best judge of their true characters. Does Colonel Fitzwilliam approve of them? Are they welcomed in society by reasonable people, and have they friends and family who can speak to their worth? I advise you to bear these questions in mind, but I also restate my earlier decision—I will have no Bath-marriages—no hasty weddings from rented lodgings. If these gentlemen are the paragons you claim them to be, they are perfectly capable of coming to Longbourn and asking me for my daughters' hands._

_In all other respects, my love, I beg of you to enjoy yourself, and have your fill of the wider world, so that when you do come home, you shall be content to live the rest of your natural life at Longbourn. Keep this in mind, when you feel yourself beginning to think how pleasant it would be to hold a double-wedding in Bath: once Mary and Kitty are both married and gone from home (if indeed such an event ever occurs), you will have nobody left to parade through Bath or London or Brighton or any of those other foolish places; our life will be a much quieter one, and I shall not be induced to spend any "Season" in any place. Perhaps this will convince you to wait awhile before thrusting our daughters into the marriage state._

_With great fondness,_

_Your loving husband,_

_Edward C. Bennet_

Mrs. Bennet read her husband's letter with a furrowed brow. She had not thought her request to stay in Bath until Christmas so terribly unreasonable—for they were to spend Christmas at Pemberley, and there could be no point in going back to Longbourn only to leave again in a month or two for Derbyshire. That Mr. Bennet had consented only to an extra month struck her as very stingy, though this opinion was perhaps informed by the rest of the letter, which vexed her greatly.

But there was nothing for it, and with a heavy sigh, she announced to her girls that they were only to have _one_ more month in Bath, and that they were therefore obliged to make the most of it.

Mary and Kitty were not so distressed as she imagined they might have been. Though Mary had begun to enjoy the city more in the wake of her conversation with Robert Hart, she still ached to be at home. She loved autumn in Hertfordshire—the golden fields, the changing leaves, the quiet chill of each afternoon—and while she did not mind being in Bath _now_, she would be glad to leave in October. It would be comforting, to sit in the parlor at Longbourn with a fire in the hearth and the leaves falling outside, and not be obliged to attend parties and assemblies every evening. (Though of course, she reflected sadly, she _would_ miss the concerts.)

Kitty, who had seen Mr. Price happily returned from London, was reassured by the manifestation of his feelings when they were alone together: he had taken to reciting bits of love-poetry, turning every stray remark into an opportunity for some elegant compliment, promising his love and insisting that she do the same; he had even asked for a lock of her hair, which she had eagerly provided. He was so patently lovestruck that she could not help being sanguine about the future, and though she could happily stay in Bath forever, she was nevertheless confident that she could achieve her desired purpose within the time allotted, and return to Meryton as an engaged woman—if not a married one.

There had been one little incident, which had startled her out of this cheerful humor, the day after Mr. Price's return from London; but it had been a week now, and the memory had lost some of its sting. Upon his return to Bath, Mr. Price's first object had naturally been to call upon Kitty, and take her for a walk in one of the nearby parks, where they spoke to each other very tenderly, and called each other many affectionate names. "Did anything happen while I was away, my love?" the gentleman asked idly, at a break in the conversation.

"No, to be sure," Kitty replied, smiling at him. "Bath is very dull when you are not here; I do not like any of these people so well as I like you."

"_Love_ me, you should say—for that is how I hope you feel," was the gentle correction.

"Oh indeed," Kitty agreed warmly. "I certainly do not _love_ anybody so well as I love you, and I do not think I ever could. I was very pleased by the note you sent me—" But here she paused. "You will laugh, my love," she said, "but something _did_ happen—it was not very important, and quite amusing to me now, though I suppose I was a little distressed at the time."

"I cannot bear to think of you distressed, even a little. What was the incitement?"

"Well," Kitty said, a little haltingly, "I was very pleased by your note, and so I took to carrying it with me, in my reticule. And the other night while we were at the Daltons', I happened to stumble, and I dropped the bag."

She paused, expecting some tender interjection from her beau, but he was only looking at her. Her stomach sank a little; she had really thought Alexander would be amused by the tale, but he did not look to be so.

"Anyway the note fell out, and Oliver Finch picked it up and read it; but I made him hand it back directly, and I swore him to secrecy. And I do not think he has told anyone else. There, my darling, you see, it is nothing so important. I do not know why you are looking at me so sternly."

Alexander Price's face was indeed very stern, and he turned away from her after a moment. "That was careless of you, Kitty," he said. "I told you I wished to keep our relationship private, so that we might be liberated from the stares and gossip which would otherwise plague us."

"It was an accident," Kitty exclaimed, a little startled by his graveness, and by the pleading tone in her own voice. "I did not _mean_ to drop it."

"You should not have had it with you at all. I cannot deny that I am vexed by this news. I did not intend the note to be carried about like a talisman, which anybody might see; it was for your eyes alone. This is a blow to my trust."

Oliver Finch's words to her sprang unbidden to Kitty's ears, and she bit her lip. "You can trust me, my love," she promised, tears in her eyes. "I promise I shall not make such a mistake again. Mr. Finch will not tell anybody—I was very hard upon him, and told him how important it was. And I have not said anything to anybody, though you know it is so difficult for me, for having your love makes me the happiest of all girls, and I would tell the world if you said I could. But I have _not_; I have not told Rosamond or even Mamma, and have done everything I can to keep it all hidden from Mary and anybody else who might interfere. I promise I have been very faithful, and kept everything a secret, and I shall continue to do so as long as you think it necessary—even until we are married, if you like," she went on wildly. "_Please_ do not be angry with me! I cannot bear it!"

Mr. Price was regarding her very seriously, but at the last words he finally gave a little smile and, glancing about to make sure they were not watched, took her in his arms. She did not think anything could have been more welcome than his embrace, and laid her head upon his strong shoulder, wearied by her emotional exertion.

"There, my beauty," the gentleman said gently, pulling her away from him a little and pressing his lips to her forehead. "Forgive me, my dear, for alarming you so. I am not angry, only a little disappointed, but that will soon pass. Oliver Finch is a fool, but a faithful one, and I have no doubt he will do as you have instructed. There are worse people who might have read that note. Be easy, sweet one. I forgive you."

"Thank you," Kitty said gratefully, brushing at her eyes. "I promise I shall not be so careless again."

"I am sure you will not," Alexander Price agreed, tucking her arm securely through his as they began to walk. "I believe you have learned your lesson very well, and you will be a model of secrecy and discretion."

The entire quarrel had lasted only a few minutes, and while Kitty had been uneasy for the rest of the day, her misgivings had faded by the time she woke the next morning. She could not suppress a strange feeling of familiarity, however; for though the circumstances were very different, and though she had indeed been at fault, the outline of the argument—Alexander's sudden anger, her own confusion and panicked apologies, and his final magnanimity—seemed somehow a much colder, quieter, more severe version of her old squabbles with Lydia. She had always seemed to be in the wrong then, too; and Lydia's shrieks and tantrums had pained her so much that she had usually capitulated even when she did not entirely think she was obliged to. How ridiculous those rows seemed to her now!

But the argument had been a week ago, and since then she and Mr. Price had spent a great deal of time together, during which he had been nothing but solicitous and adoring. She was his beauty, his love, his precious and his sweet one—at least when they were alone together—for in public, she was "Miss Katherine" and while he paid her friendly attention and spoke to her often, he did not distinguish her in any meaningful way. She had at first been much bothered by this, but bore it now with better grace by reminding herself that this was also the lot of the heroine in _Carlotta_, whose devoted fiancé was wanted for crimes he had not committed but who could not bear to be parted from her, and who therefore had to masquerade as another gentleman in public, and could not be seen to afford her any special attention without compromising either her reputation or his own identity. (It had been a thrilling read.)

At any rate, Mr. Price's insistence upon discretion seemed to be doing some good; for though Mary still openly disapproved of the gentleman and Mrs. Bennet still fawned over him, nobody else seemed to notice anything. Rosamond and her family were only ever polite to Mr. Price, and Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared entirely unconcerned by the gentleman's friendship with his young cousin-by-marriage. Only Oliver Finch ever looked at all troubled when he saw them walking or talking together, but he seemed to have kept his silence. Kitty felt quite sure that there were no rumors to be feared, and though she would not have minded perhaps _one_ rumor—it is a rare young lady who does not like being talked about at least a little—Mr. Price seemed to dread the very idea, and so their safety made her happy, because it made him happy.

"There is this to be said, at least," Mary remarked one afternoon, as she walked with Rosamond in the little park behind Hart House. "They certainly cannot marry."

Having resigned herself to the fact that her criticisms of Mr. Price, when addressed to her mother and sister, would only ever fall upon deaf ears, she had taken to discussing him with Rosamond. Her friend was often amused by Mary's vehemence, but she was nonetheless an excellent listener.

"Your mother does not seem to share that view," Rosamond replied absently, tilting her head and closing her eyes to feel the sunshine on her face. Mary huffed.

"Mamma is very pleased with the situation; but there has been a letter from my father, and he insists he shall not approve of any nuptials until he meets the gentleman himself."

"And you think Mr. Bennet will disapprove of Mr. Price?"

"Any parent of sense and reason will disapprove of such a son-in-law," Mary said firmly. "Do you think _your_ father would allow you to be courted by Mr. Price? Or your brothers, for that matter—would they be so civil to him if they thought him to have designs upon you?"  
Rosamond laughed. "I am not the sort of girl upon whom anybody forms designs," she answered. "Yet perhaps you are right; I cannot imagine my father condoning such a marriage. _But_," she added, "that is because Mr. Price and I would not be a good match. Our tempers are too dissimilar, and I cannot see myself ever possessing any real affection for him, or him for me. Papa would not allow me to be courted by any gentleman I could not love." She stooped to pluck a gray-headed dandelion.

"My father's requirements are perhaps more stringent," Mary said. "He is already once cursed with a worthless son-in-law, and he will not be fooled by Mr. Price's wit and vivacity. There are more serious, concrete qualities which are required in a husband, and Mr. Price is lacking in all of them."

"You seem very secure in your judgment."

"I am; because I know myself to be in the right. I can see him for the trifler he is, even if Mamma and Kitty cannot."

Rosamond hummed vaguely, watching the breeze lift the downy seeds from the dandelion in her hand and carry them across the park. A few landed on the sleeve of Mary's spencer, and she brushed them away impatiently.

"Do you not agree with me?" she demanded.

"I cannot say," was the unexpected reply. "I agree that Mr. Price is hardly a serious gentleman, but perhaps that is not so terrible. Kitty seems to like him, and his behavior toward her is not unseemly. He is a bit forward perhaps, and you say he calls on your sister more often than you would prefer, but then that is not a crime. You come to Hart House almost as much as he goes to Henry Street, I wager."

"But you do not like him!" Mary exclaimed, scandalized. "You said you were concerned by Kitty's fondness for him."

"I should have been equally concerned had some young lady displayed such extreme infatuation for one of my own brothers, after only two or three brief meetings. I confess I do not particularly like Mr. Price myself, but in truth the gentleman himself never concerned me so much as the intensity of the feelings engendered by such a short acquaintance. I worry that Kitty thinks of marriage very romantically, when in fact it is a state that must be endured for the rest of one's life, and therefore requires honest consideration."

"That is very true," Mary said, somewhat appeased. "But as to the gentleman himself—"

"He has not the reputation of a scoundrel," Rosamond interjected gently. "He has friends here in Bath, who genuinely seem to like him, and he has never been accused of improper conduct. Of course I do not know him very well, nor have I any desire to; and I cannot speak to his reputation in London, not knowing his circle there; but in Bath, at least, I have only heard him spoken of as an amiable sort of man."

Mary snorted. "'An amiable sort of man'—_that_ will do very well for my father. His greatest hope is to see his daughter married to 'an amiable sort of man.'"

Rosamond laughed. "Forgive me, Mary, for not sharing your enthusiasm in despising Mr. Price. It is a failing on my part, to be sure. Perhaps he will return to London soon, and be forgotten forever."

"And even if not, then my father will disapprove of him," Mary maintained, "and there will be no marriage. In _that_, at least, we may take solace."

They walked quietly for a few minutes. The park was largely empty, though Mary could not see why, for the day was fine and the weather warm. A few leaves sailed gently from their branches as the breeze sighed again, splashing little points of red and gold against the green grass. Not for the first time in her life, Mary wished she had learned to draw. It would have been a fine thing to add to her list of accomplishments.

"Do you think your father would approve of Robert?" Rosamond asked idly, breaking the silence.

Mary started and glanced at her. Rosamond's eyes were trained on the progress of a small rabbit, a few feet from the path, who was hopping gingerly from the shelter of one shrubbery to the shade of another.

Mary could not tell whether Robert had told his twin of their conversation; Rosamond had made no mention of the matter. She did not know whether brothers and sisters shared things the way sisters did (not that anybody had ever shared anything with _her_; but Jane and Elizabeth, and Kitty and Lydia, had always been in each others' confidence).

"I believe he would," she said, carefully, after a long moment of consideration. "Robert is of a serious mind, and possesses both intelligence and good nature."

"Yes, some of the time," Rosamond added teasingly.

She said nothing else, and Mary allowed the subject to drop. After a minute or so Rosamond asked her friend how she was enjoying _Evelina_, and they occupied themselves very productively until they decided to return to Hart House.

* * *

The Bennets' days in Bath passed pleasantly, if quietly. Many of the families who had extended their Season-long stay into the summer were now taking their leave of the city, even as those residents who typically traveled in the warmer months began returning home, and there fell a brief lull between balls and assemblies as everyone did their best to get themselves settled. Evening card-parties and suppers were not uncommon, but they were tranquil affairs, lacking the bustle and frivolity of summer engagements. Mary busied herself with her reading and her practice, and took long walks in the nearby parks—sometimes accompanied by Robert, or Rosamond (who in turn was sometimes accompanied by Mr. Finch), or even, on one occasion, Anne Hart. She was pleased to find the latter quite an agreeable conversationalist, if a little quixotic and perhaps a slower walker than Mary liked: certainly much improved from the wilted, standoffish creature which her sister Elizabeth had once described. Mary was even privileged to attend two more weekly concerts with the Harts, which left her glowing.

Mr. Price usually called once or twice every week, and if the afternoon was fine, he and Kitty would walk out together after sitting in the drawing-room for a respectable amount of time; and it was these moments alone together for which Kitty lived. She enjoyed her other amusements in Bath: calling upon her friends, promenading in the Pump-room, shopping and talking with Rosamond, dining out and spending evenings away from home, even taking the waters with her mother sometimes; but nothing could compare to walking beside Alexander Price on some quiet street, or in some empty garden, hearing him speak to her so tenderly and, every so often, affording him a careful kiss.

It is difficult to underestimate the effect of Mr. Price's attention upon such a young lady as Kitty Bennet: a girl who imagines herself the heroine of some romantic novel, who has dreamt of and longed for the devotion of some chivalrous knight, but has so often been outshone by her sisters—more beautiful, more clever, more lively than she—and aside from a few dances with willing officers and maybe a brief flirtation here or there, has seen all of her imaginings come to naught. For such a young lady, there is nothing so gratifying as the tender attentions of a man who is not only very charming, but remarkably handsome, and in possession of a house in Town and (according to Mrs. Bennet's sources) a very fine chaise-and-four. Alexander Price could not have approached Kitty at a better time, for having recently become the only pretty unmarried daughter in a family locally famed for its beauties, she had quite determined not to be overshadowed by the likes of _Mary_, and decided that she must marry soon, and better than her sisters, if she was to be happy.

And so, to hear such phrases as "I could not live without you, my dear; pray tell me you shall never leave my side," was everything she could have hoped for at such a juncture in her life.

"Of course I shall not," Kitty declared warmly, resting her head upon Alexander's shoulder. They had walked to the Bathwick Street bridge north-east of the town, and leaned now upon the railing, watching the boats downstream.

"I should like to take you with me to London, my love, and have everybody there envy me."

"I should love to go to London," was the dreamy reply. "Where is your house, again?"

"It is in Marylebone, on a little side street, but quite close to a great many important places. It is quite a plain apartment at the moment, but it would be greatly enhanced by your presence; you have so many neat touches about you, I daresay you would make it very grand."

"Have you many friends there?"

"I have enough to keep me amused. Their company is nothing compared to _yours_.—You look astonishingly lovely today, sweet one; even more beautiful than when I saw you on Thursday, and I thought _that_ difficult to surpass. Is that a new dress?"

"No, but I have not worn it much," Kitty replied carelessly. "Does your family live in London, my dear?"

She felt Alexander stiffen beside her. "They do," he replied shortly.

"If I were to go to London with you, should I meet them?"

"I do not think so." His voice was testy. "I have not much contact with them. They are not pleasant people, and I would not subject you to their society."

"They cannot be so unpleasant, if they are anything like you," she answered sweetly, turning to him with a smile.

"They are nothing like me—hence their unpleasantness."

Kitty, sensing his vexation, did not press the matter further. "I should very much like for you to meet _my_ family," she sighed happily. "My sisters would all be very jealous, for their husbands are nothing to you—not so handsome, nor so clever and amiable. Lydia would be wild with rage, for she hates me to have anything she does not."

"You are too kind, my darling—you give me too much credit. Your brother Wickham I cannot claim to know; but I should be flattered if your brothers Darcy and Bingley considered me their equal, let alone their superior."

"Oh, they are only rich," Kitty laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "Their being rich does not make them better than anybody; marriage is not about money."

She realized, with a wicked thrill, that she was already talking of Alexander as her husband—not only to her mother or herself, but to the gentleman himself—though he had made no formal proposal. She was delighted when he took up the theme.

"No indeed," he answered, turning her to face him. "Marriage is about love, and desire, and happiness, and a great many other important things—but whatever else it is about, it is not about money."

Kitty beamed, and tilted her head for a kiss. Alexander leaned down toward her; but at the sound of footsteps rounding the corner from St. John's Road, he stepped quickly away, and returned to his place on the railing. Kitty turned to regard the intruder reproachfully.

To her discomfiture, the intruder was Oliver Finch, and he was not alone. Walking with him was an elderly gentleman in a white collar, who could only have been Mr. Finch's rector. They were talking together earnestly, and Kitty swallowed her disappointment at the interruption, determined to be polite; for she did like Mr. Finch, even if he had nearly ruined things with Mr. Price, and she felt sorry for having spoken to him so unkindly at the Daltons'.

"Hello, Mr. Finch," she called, dropping into a curtsy, as the gentlemen drew close. "How are you today?"

Mr. Finch started at the sudden address, but gave a low bow at her greeting. "Hello, Miss Katherine," he responded, with what Kitty thought was unwarranted graveness; "Mr. Price."

"Finch," Mr. Price drawled, with a nod. "Out upon some parish business, I suppose?"

Mr. Finch replied in the affirmative, and introduced Dr. Blackburn, who gave a very bright smile and a bow. "It is always so agreeable to see young people enjoying the fine weather," the rector declared cheerfully. "Finch tells me he walks regularly into town—even so far as Widcombe, for which I commend him. These sunny days will come to an end far too quickly, you know, and then it will be so cold that we will take coaches and Bath-chairs everywhere, and never have any fresh air."

"Better that we should enjoy ourselves now," Mr. Price agreed. "Have you gentlemen been for a constitutional, then?"

Dr. Blackburn laughed. "No, indeed," he replied, "nothing so pleasant! We have been to a meeting at the Abbey, and are hoping to return to Larkhall in time for luncheon. Finch is grown hungry, I can tell, for his stride has lengthened to twice its normal measure since we passed Henrietta Park."

Kitty, allowing the conversation to wash over her, raised her eyes to meet Mr. Finch's; for though she could not say why, she was embarrassed that he had found her standing alone with Mr. Price—even though they had not been doing anything _wrong_, and anyway Mr. Finch already knew all there was to know, so there was no further damage to be done. Even as he stood silent, looking at Dr. Blackburn, Kitty felt as though he was somehow disapproving of her, and the thought bothered her more than she believed it should.

She wished very much to make some sign of friendliness between them. To this end, she looked at him steadily, waiting for him to catch her eye, and at length he felt her gaze and looked back at her. There was nothing censorious in his expression; indeed, it was carefully blank. But Kitty gave him an encouraging smile, and after a moment of hesitation, he gave a minute bow of the head and returned it, albeit rather timidly. Kitty's heart lifted.

"At any rate, we must be getting along," Dr. Blackburn said; "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Price—and you, Miss Bennet—and do be sure to enjoy this lovely day."

"We could not bring ourselves to do otherwise," Mr. Price replied graciously. "Enjoy your walk back to Larkhall."

There were a few more polite words exchanged, before the clergymen took their leave and made their way briskly along the bridge. Kitty and Mr. Price watched them go.

"I ought to have known," Mr. Price muttered darkly, "that we could not be allowed to come near Larkhall, without being obliged to suffer _his_ company."

"I cannot see why you dislike Mr. Finch so," Kitty answered, with a nervous giggle.

"His company bores me so thoroughly that it makes me quite annoyed."

"He is quiet, to be sure, and not terribly interesting, but he is perfectly agreeable."

"He is a perfect fool."

"No, no," Kitty laughed, "you mustn't speak so; he is in love with Rosamond Hart, and she is one of my most particular friends, and so I cannot allow you to speak so ill of a gentleman who loves her!"

"All the more reason he is a fool—if he thinks himself likely to win Miss Hart, he is quite deluded. She has too much beauty to willingly waste it on a curate. She will be Lady Adlam before the spring, my dear; mark my words."

Kitty frowned, for this was alarmingly similar to a conversation they had had before; but this time, she felt, she had a right to be annoyed, and she snapped, "You certainly seem to think Rosamond very pretty."

Alexander Price turned to regard her with surprise.

"You have said more than once how beautiful she is," Kitty pressed, "and it isn't right for you to say."

"Forgive me, my love," Alexander said after a long moment; "I had not realized how my words must sound to your ears. I mean only that she is _objectively_ beautiful—like a painting—but in truth I think it quite a cold, lifeless sort of beauty, and nothing compared to your own."

This Kitty felt to be flattery, for while she knew herself to be tolerably pretty, she was hardly a beauty when compared to Rosamond Hart. But she averted her gaze anyway, looking stonily ahead, prompting Mr. Price to elaborate:

"I have never found any charm in gray eyes. I have always found blue much more lively, and much more worth looking at. And yellow hair, while perhaps fashionable at the moment, has always struck me as rather dull to the eye—I prefer a rich brown. Besides which, she is at least an inch shorter than you are, and I consider you, my precious, to be the _perfect_ height."

"There," Kitty replied, turning to him more brightly. "That is all I wished to hear, my love."

And so appeased, she tucked her arm through his, and began walking back toward Henry Street; for Dr. Blackburn's mention of luncheon had sparked her own hunger, and she wondered whether Mamma and Mary had already dined.

* * *

Mrs. Bennet gave her needlework a very black look, though it had done her no ill. She was quite displeased.

September was nearly gone. Leaves were falling from the trees, and while the weather had remained largely sunny, a few crisp cold days had startled the city into donning thick shawls and heavier coats. The Season was long gone, and the summer becoming an ever more distant memory; Michaelmas, the Bennets' original date of departure, had passed only the day before, and Mrs. Bennet could only be glad that they had been afforded an extra month, for as of now their stay in Bath had been, to her mind, a disappointment.

It had been three weeks now since the party at the Daltons', from which Mrs. Bennet had returned with a certainty that Mary and Robert were engaged. And yet, in questioning her daughter closely, and watching the pair of them together and evening gatherings, she could not in fact find out that any understanding had emerged between them. Mary seemed perfectly content—but she did not seem at all in love, and Robert, in his occasional visits to Henry Street, had not made any request to speak to Mary or her mother alone, or made any references (however oblique) to writing to Mr. Bennet, or going to visit Longbourn, or any of the other things which a serious suitor ought to be considering. In his conduct toward Mary, he was amiable and even fond; they sought each other out in company, and spent time together quite regularly; but there was no hint of romantic attachment. Indeed, even the pregnant tension which Mrs. Bennet had once sensed between them had vanished: a thorough dissatisfaction for an anxious mother who inspected for tenderness and found only friendliness.

Kitty, at least, seemed to be doing very well with Mr. Price; for though he was not so demonstrative as Mrs. Bennet might have wished, they nonetheless spent a great deal of time alone together, from which Kitty always returned with a telling glow. This was encouraging, and as their acquaintance was briefer than the one existing between Robert and Mary (for Mrs. Bennet, in her zeal, counted as a prelude to that courtship all of the time from their meeting Theo and Rosamond at Pemberley, nearly a year ago, when they had first become aware of Robert's existence), it would necessarily take a little more time before _those_ matters were seen to their happy conclusion. A month longer in Bath would certainly do the trick.

But then Mrs. Bennet had never really worried about Kitty. A pleasant, attractive girl, who had always had plenty of friends and rarely sat down during a ball, Kitty had always been sure to marry eventually. Certainly it was the duty of the mother to see this accomplished sooner, rather than later, but Mrs. Bennet had always felt confident enough that Kitty was quite capable of securing at least one good beau over the course of her life.

Mary, on the other hand, was quite another case. Mrs. Bennet had always pitied those families of her acquaintance who had spinster daughters to look after. Having concluded, perhaps prematurely, that Charlotte Lucas would never marry, she had often consoled Lady Lucas with assurances that it was nobody's fault Charlotte was so plain, and that Maria and the younger girls would surely do better. But now, faced with her own potential spinster daughter, she could not even console herself with her triumphs in the cases of her other girls—for how could she look forward, with any degree of pleasure, to having Mary always at Longbourn? To spend the rest of her life listening to her daughter's sermons and complaints, and watching her grow older and plainer and more peevish?

It was not that she did not love Mary, for indeed Mrs. Bennet truly loved all of her daughters; it was that their tempers were so dissimilar, and Mrs. Bennet's understanding so limited, that there had never arisen any degree of intimacy between them. Mrs. Bennet would have preferred to have Lydia always at home, for her youngest was her darling child; or Jane, who was so good and helpful; but, more than anything, she desired to see all of her daughters _married_.

Besides which, Mrs. Bennet did not think it possible for a woman to be happy while she was aware that no man in the world had ever found her attractive enough to secure her. Certainly such unhappy knowledge could only produce a very bitter old maid. Thus, the good lady concluded that Mary, too, must by now be impatient with Robert Hart's inaction; however content she seemed with the current state of affairs, she could only be praying for the all-important question to be asked. Mrs. Bennet's displeasure with her daughter, therefore, transformed itself into pity; for what an objectionable situation it was, to be waiting on a proposal from a gentleman who insisted on dawdling!

She brought up the subject with Mary late one morning, while they were sitting together in the drawing-room. "Really, my love, I think it is very good of you to be so patient with Robert Hart. I am sure he will come before very long to know what he is about; but perhaps you might help him along."

Unfortunately, she had chosen to address the matter in front of Kitty, who dissolved into giggles, and the visiting Hart sisters, whose identical eyes widened simultaneously. The effect would have been rather comical, had not Mary been so mortified.

"Mamma!" she exclaimed. "I am sure I do not understand what you mean."

"You needn't be so guarded, child. We are all friends here; we can speak frankly."

"Have you not always told me I ought to speak less pleasantly, and more meaningfully?" Kitty demanded wickedly, happy enough in her own romance to tease Mary about hers. "Surely _you_ won't object to an honest discussion of an important topic."

Mary directed a dark glare at her sister. "The topic is not an important one, and does not need to be discussed, particularly in our present company. You must remember that the Miss Harts can have no wish to hear this conversation."

"Mary is very shy, of course," Mrs. Bennet said breezily to her guests, "but I am sure you girls are as impatient as _we_ are; is that not so? Such fond sisters must be eager to see their brother happily settled. Do you not think, Miss Hart, that you may make some hint to Mr. Hart? He cares so much for your opinion, after all."

"Mamma!" Mary cried again, her face now red indeed. "This is most inappropriate!"

Juliet had by now joined in Kitty's giggles, although she hid them behind her hands; but Rosamond appeared to take pity on Mary, and answered seriously, "I regret to inform you, Mrs. Bennet, that Robert is of a stubborn disposition, and upon such subjects does not care for anybody's opinion but his own."

"That is too bad," Mrs. Bennet sighed. "Then I suppose the burden must indeed be on Mary. You mustn't be afraid, my love, to make some little hints" (this to her daughter) "which can lead him in the correct direction. There are any number of clever contrivances a young lady may employ, without overstepping her bounds or appearing at all forward. Indeed, it was two full months' work on my part before your father proposed, and in the end he thought it all his own idea!"

Kitty burst into fresh laughter at this, and even Rosamond could not suppress a smile. Mary, burning with embarrassment, wished very much that she could disappear completely.

"You are a wealth of insight, Mrs. Bennet," Rosamond remarked. "I must remember to address myself to you when I decide to arrange my own marriage; I am sure I could not do better."

"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, with a very broad wink, "I am sure _you_ shall have no trouble in that quarter. Indeed, from what I hear, he is quite in love with you already."

To the surprise of everyone except Mrs. Bennet (who considered Mr. Finch Rosamond's property as much as Mr. Price was Kitty's, and Mr. Hart Mary's) and perhaps little Juliet, a pretty blush bloomed over Rosamond's features, and she glanced away. Kitty, startled at this display of maidenly coyness from her usually serene friend, wondered if there had been some development of which she was unaware; whatever it was, she hoped it was in favor of poor Mr. Finch.

"At any rate," Rosamond said, regaining her composure, "Juliet and I must away; we are to meet Mrs. Hart for tea, and as it is a rare thing these days to find our sister stirring from her own comfortable fireside, we must not be late."

"May I join you?" Mary asked rather desperately, for she knew that upon the young ladies' departure, Mrs. Bennet would persist in enumerating all of the "clever contrivances" which would propel Robert Hart into the marriage state.

"It would give us great pleasure," Rosamond said brightly.

"And I?" Kitty asked, for she had an inclination to press Rosamond for further details which might explain the mysterious blush and sideways glance. In so doing, she thought, she might find some way of speaking a good word for Mr. Finch, and so repay him for his obliging discretion regarding Mr. Price.

"To be sure," her friend agreed, with a little laugh; "We shall conquer Sally Lunn's all together, and fill the air with our prattle. Will you join us, Mrs. Bennet?"

Mrs. Bennet, who thought she might call upon her friend Mrs. Cooke, waved away the invitation, but bid all the girls a cheerful goodbye, and gave her compliments to Mrs. Hart, and encouraged them all to have a merry time; for she really did like to see young people enjoying themselves.

They set out from Henry Street and walked as briskly as they could, for there was a chill in the air. Juliet commandeered Kitty's arm and they walked a little ahead together, laughing and chattering, leaving the two elder sisters to trail behind. Mary, whose blush had not entirely subsided, nonetheless did her best to seem unconcerned with what had passed in the drawing-room. She need not have bothered, however, for upon ascertaining that the younger girls were sufficiently absorbed in their own conversation, Rosamond turned to her and said without prelude,

"Why do you not simply tell your mother that Robert does not wish to marry you? Perhaps then she would not bother you so."

Mary was taken aback, for though she was an avowed believer in honesty and candor, she was still sometimes a little surprised by Rosamond's directness.

"Has Robert told you of his intentions?" she asked, a little tartly; for it was one thing if Robert _had_, but otherwise it was quite an unflattering assumption for Rosamond to have made. Her friend, to her annoyance, shook her head. "Then how can you know he has no such wish?"

Rosamond gave a little laugh. "We are twins; I always know."

This reminded Mary of something which Robert had once said, and she glanced away with a frown. Rosamond, sensing her displeasure, laid an conciliatory hand on her arm. "But I am correct, am I not? You told me yourself that you had no desire to marry just now, and it is plain that Robert shares your inclination—or lack thereof. You must have spoken of it. I am glad for both your sakes," she went on, as Mary opened her mouth to reply, "and I am pleased to see that you can now stand in a room together without blushing and averting your eyes, or hopping nervously from one foot to the other. It was painful to watch. But why do you not mention this to your mother?"

Mary sighed. "Mamma thinks it unnatural for a gentleman and a lady to be friendly without being in love; and she thinks it even worse for a young lady to have no interest in husbands at my stage of life. I told her once that I was not prepared for marriage, and she—did not understand."

"What, then, shall you do? Pretend to be waiting upon a proposal that is not forthcoming?"

"It is simpler than attempting to explain things to her."

Rosamond gave a thoughtful nod. "I suppose you are right; but surely her disappointment will be all the more severe, when you leave Bath a single woman."

"It is good for us to experience disappointment now and again," Mary said decisively, "as it strengthens the soul, and improves the character. It is never good for one to have everything one wants; such immoderation leads to moral indolence and other serious failings."

Her friend, smiling, looked as though she wished to say more; but at that moment they reached the tea-shop, and any further conversation was impossible as they navigated the crowded little room to the table where Mrs. Hart sat waiting for them.

Anne looked very well, even rather plump, for someone who had once been considered an invalid; and she was already enjoying a large bun and a cup of tea. Her sisters-in-law waved away her apologies for not having waited on them as they took their seats. Kitty, who still wished to question Rosamond, unceremoniously shoved Mary away from the chair at her friend's left (into which Mary had been almost fully seated) and claimed it for herself.

"I wish to talk with Rose," she hissed, in response to Mary's outraged squawk. "She is my friend too, you know."

Mary retreated, sulking, to the other side of the table.

But there was no opportunity for Kitty to talk with Rose just yet, for Anne being the newest addition to the party, she must necessarily take center stage; and there was a great deal of news to be shared among the ladies, and questions to be asked and answered, and things to be said. The server deposited their tea and pastries before them, and for a time the conversation was very general and cheerful as everybody ate and drank, and talked and listened.

At length, however, Anne asked Mary some question regarding a concert which she and Mr. Hart had not attended, and Mary, her eyes lighting up, answered her eagerly, joined by Juliet who sat between them. Kitty, taking her opportunity, leaned in toward Rosamond just a little, and caught her eye, and said "I saw Mr. Finch just the other day."

"Did you?" Rosamond replied pleasantly. "I hope he was well."

"He was very well," was Kitty's automatic response; but then she furrowed her brow, and added "Have you not seen him yourself?"

"Not since Monday—when did you see him?"

"On Tuesday."

"Then I award you the greater claim for knowing whether he is well," Rosamond laughed.

"But you must have seen him," Kitty pressed, a little dismayed. "Has he not called at Hart House? Have you not met him in the Pump-room, or any other place?"

"I understand he has been kept quite busy with parish affairs. The curate's lodgings are almost ready for him, and he has been working closely with the rector to put everything in order."

"Well, then," Kitty said, more satisfied. Perhaps the completion of the lodgings had led Oliver Finch to declare himself at last; that would certainly explain Rosamond's blush. But, she thought, scrutinizing her friend, Rose did not _now_ have the look of a young lady soon to be married: her features were perfectly tranquil, her complexion unreddened, her expression lacking in any hint of longing, or sentiment, or bashfulness. "Still," she added, "one would think he might make more effort to see his friends."

"Has he neglected you, Kitty?" Rosamond asked teasingly.

"Neglected me! No indeed, for he has only ever called once at Henry Street—or twice, I suppose, but the first time was very brief—and I hardly ever see him except in company; no, if he were to neglect me, I do not think I should realize it. But he ought not to neglect _you_, for you are such particular friends, and so much in each other's confidence. It is very unwise of him," she went on consciously, "to absorb himself so much in his work, when it might cost him such a companionship."

Rosamond, to her surprise, burst out laughing. "How severe you are!" she exclaimed. "Have no fear, Kitty, for I understand very well what it is for a gentleman to have an occupation, and I am prepared to be very forgiving, so long as the work which absorbs him is that which makes him happy. You can have no cause to be wounded on my part."

Kitty was a little encouraged by this, and would have said more, except at that moment Juliet addressed some remark to her sister, which Rosamond turned to answer, and the conversation was effectively ended.

Still, Kitty thought, as she took a large bite from her Bath-bun, it seemed she had done Mr. Finch's cause some good; and perhaps there would be no Lady Adlam married this spring, after all.

She did not think it entirely right of her, but the thought of proving Mr. Price wrong about this at least—though he was her dear, cherished, adoring Mr. Price, and she should not hurt him for anything—gave her a little thrill of satisfaction.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** I have made my grad school decision and secured a place to live. Now I only have to worry about finding some way to pay for all this. Thank you to everyone for your congratulations! I hope everyone is enjoying the lovely spring weather—we've just been through a few stormy days here!

* * *

Kitty Bennet had a terrible secret.

Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been cause for rejoicing, for the heroines of her favorite novels were always in possession of terrible secrets, or discovering terrible secrets, or the subjects of terrible secrets. Had Kitty's terrible secret been of the type which frequently formed the backbones of such novels, she almost certainly would have been unable to contain her excitement, and the secret would not have remained so for very long. But this secret was not of the sort which she wished to share—indeed, it made her feel rather ashamed.

Kitty's secret was that she was quite unaccountably bored.

There was no excuse for her to be so. She was seated upon a bench in a quiet park, her hands clasped daintily in her lap, well aware that she looked quite fetching in her new walking-dress. Her dear Alexander was seated at her side, leaning toward her, a book of love-poetry in his hands, from which he was reading to her in the tenderest voice imaginable. The day was brilliant and they were quite alone. This was the sort of scene in which, only a few days before, Kitty had delighted. There had never been anything so gratifying as the warmth of Alexander's attention, or the timbre of his voice when he spoke to her so. Yet today, she could not help wishing that he would be quiet. What was wrong with her?

It felt as though Alexander had been reading for hours, when in fact it had been only a few minutes. She could not focus on the words, and instead kept fidgeting. There was nothing to look at; there was nobody else walking nearby (for if there had been, of course Alexander would have become Mr. Price and such tender moments would have been out of the question), and many of the pretty flowers which had once scented the air had begun to wither with the recent cold weather. This was a park in which they had walked and sat many times before, as it was usually quiet, and Kitty was struck by how many times she had enjoyed this view, and thought this place the most charming in the world, for it was where she could lean upon Alexander's arm without fear of chastisement; but suddenly she had a vision of herself sitting here forever, staring at these same dying flowers, listening to this same monotonous poem, and _this_ was her whole future, stretching into eternity, sitting and staring and listening and never being allowed to speak—

Kitty started and shook herself. How silly she was being!

"My love," she said, tentatively, turning to him; and Alexander obligingly paused in his reading, looking up at her. "My love, it is a beautiful poem, but I'm afraid I might not understand all of it, and I wonder if we might talk a little instead."

"Of course," Alexander said readily, putting the book down. "What would you like to talk about, my beauty?"

"Oh—anything will do."

"If I had my druthers, I should choose to talk about _you_," Alexander answered, smiling. "You look remarkably pretty today, my dear, and I don't know if I said so before—but even if I did, it ought to be said again. That dress suits you prodigiously well."  
"Thank you," Kitty said, blushing a little. "It is new, you know, for I did not bring many autumn-clothes with me, so Mamma said I may buy some more."

"I hope you will wear it sometimes when we are in Town together. It may be selfish, but I do enjoy having other men envy me."

"Do you think this is fine enough for Town? I imagine I shall have to buy many new clothes from the warehouses there, or everyone will know me for a country-lass."

"That is not such a trial—people are forever charmed by country-lasses. It is the artful girls of the city who draw the most censure. _You_ have a captivating simplicity about you, which none of the Town-ladies in their fine silks can rival."

"Well I should not like to appear too gauche," Kitty said decidedly. "And I imagine I will need a great many new things, for we will dine out very often, won't we, my dear?"

"Every night, if you like. And we shall go to Almack's whenever you please, and walk in the Park every afternoon."

Kitty gave a sigh of relief. _This_ was her future—the glittering ballrooms and elegant halls of London. She did not know what had come over her before, but she felt very foolish now.

Alexander had taken it upon himself, as he always did, to fill the momentary silence with several fine compliments; he was now extolling Kitty's spirit as one of the brightest and most vivacious he had ever known.

"I am sure you will be the toast of Town before a week is out," he was saying. "You have that rare quality of enjoying yourself wherever you go, and never taking anything too seriously, or thinking too hard about things."

"You are kind, my love," Kitty said brightly. "I cannot wait for you to meet the rest of my family; I am sure they shall all adore you, and think I have done very well for myself. Will you come to Longbourn in the fall, and see Papa? Or, better—perhaps I shall have Lizzie invite you to Pemberley for Christmas! That would be a delight."

"I should like to go to Pemberley," Mr. Price admitted. "I have heard it is a most elegant estate, with very extensive grounds—quite the jewel of Derbyshire, I understand."

"Yes, it is very fine; but _I_ could never be so happy in the country as in Town. I wonder Lizzie endures it so well, and is not always longing to be at Clifton House (that is their house in Mayfair, you know).—And once _you_ have met _my_ family," Kitty continued consciously, "_I_ should like to meet _yours_."

She could not say why she was so determined to speak of Alexander's family, but she had taken to mentioning them at odd moments, if only to see how he reacted. Alexander never discussed them of his own volition, and gave only curt answers to her questions, and always changed the subject. This reticence only served to pique her curiosity, though she could tell that Alexander was only irritated by her insistence. But she could not help herself. Having grown up in a close-knit family of her own, Kitty was perplexed by this unwillingness to discuss the people who must have been his companions from the very first; surely not _all_ of his associations with them were unpleasant.

"I do not think that is a good idea," Alexander answered, stiffening, as she knew he would, and shifting away from her.

"But I must meet them _sometime_," she maintained, giving a little laugh to lighten the mood, though it was a weak effort. "It would be most strange if I went all my life without catching sight of them. Are your parents living?"

"My mother is," he replied brusquely. "My father died when I was very young."

"I am sorry," Kitty said, a little abashed. "But surely his death must have brought you and your mother closer together."

"For a time, perhaps; but that closeness has dissipated. I have little to do with her now."

"And your sister?"

"I have little to do with her, either."

"Is she older, or younger?"

"Younger, by some five years. She is just your age now, or a little younger. But I am afraid she has turned out a most selfish, disagreeable girl—too much like our mother."

"What is her name?" Kitty pressed.

"Pamela."

"Like the novel!" Kitty exclaimed, delighted, for she had never before met a real Pamela. "Have they ever come to Bath?"

"I believe they have, once or twice, though never in _my_ company."

"When was the last time you saw them?"

"I cannot recall—two years—perhaps three. My dear," he said, in his sternest voice, "this is not a subject which gives me any pleasure, and I wish you would not keep asking me these questions."

"I am only making conversation," Kitty answered, affecting a wounded tone, but he seemed quite unswayed, and stared resolutely ahead. She sighed. "I think it is a shame, my love, that you are not more intimate with your family. Perhaps they have changed since you last saw them, and are more agreeable now. And, you know," she went on, looking up at him demurely, "very often it only takes a grand event—like a great party or a ball, or even a wedding—to mend such relationships."

"I do not think it is a relationship which can be mended," Alexander said firmly. "If you _must_ know, Kitty, they wish me to do something which I am quite unwilling to do; and so until one or the other of us changes his mind completely (which I do not think likely), we shall always be entirely at odds. Now leave it alone, and let us speak of something else."

Kitty obligingly dropped the subject, though she wished he would not be so disagreeable about it. Alexander, after a long pause, took up the book again and turned to her, and she allowed her gaze to drift once more to the dying flowers.

Every relationship must have its moments of boredom, she thought, as her beau embarked upon the same poem he had been reading earlier. Indeed, she knew perfectly well that her own parents often—more often than not—found each other quite tedious. It was not so unusual that she should _sometimes_ find Alexander's company rather dull, particularly when he insisted upon reading these interminable verses. There had been no reason for her earlier panic; she was merely out-of-sorts, and would surely feel better tomorrow. And then before very long they would be really engaged, and then married, and they would live together forever and be happy.

That this prospect seemed less enchanting to her today, than it had in the past, Kitty merely attributed to her present peculiar humor. And, turning to Alexander with a smile, she endeavored to listen to the lines he was reading; for after all they were love-poems, and he was reading them out of love, and she really ought to pay attention.

* * *

Given their variant schedules and divergent interests, it was rare that the Bennet sisters found themselves alone together. Most of Kitty's time, outside of the morning calls and evening assemblies that filled their social hours, was spent with Mr. Price, or Rosamond (and sometimes her sisters), or Mrs. Bennet. Mary, in an effort to dodge the dreaded morning visits without incurring her mother's wrath, had taken to spending her mornings practicing at Hart House and her afternoons in a park or a bookshop somewhere, alone or, if Robert had a break between appointments and Rosamond was not otherwise engaged, with one or both of the twins. Rosamond had teased that it would be easier for _her_ if her friends coordinated their agendas and called on her both at once, but in truth the present arrangement suited both of the sisters very well, for they each liked to have Rosamond's full attention, to discuss their own very different concerns and ideas, and would not have ceded ground to one another with any sort of grace. And so it stood that the only time Mary and Kitty spent together was in company or in their shared bedroom, when their attention was always upon other things, and they rarely spoke more than a few words together.

But Kitty, upon returning home from her walk with Mr. Price, still thinking with dissatisfaction over the gentleman's antipathy for his family, found her sister alone in the little parlor at Henry Street and was caught by an unexpected wave of fondness. Mary was bent over _Emma Courtney_, her brow furrowed in concentration and her hair shining chestnut in the afternoon sun. She looked a little like Lizzie, but a much plainer, more prudish version of Lizzie, and Kitty suddenly thought how very much she liked Mary's plainness. Her sister could never be called a beauty, she thought warmly, but she looked very much like herself—very much as she ought to look, and had always looked, and should always look. It was exceedingly comforting.

Mary, apparently determined to destroy any affection she might have engendered, raised her head at that moment and fixed Kitty with a hard stare. "You have been out with Mr. Price again, have you not?" she demanded, pursing her lips.

"Yes," Kitty sighed, but she was a naturally warm and affectionate girl, and her momentary love for her sister could not be undone so easily. She came into the room and took the seat on the settee beside Mary, leaning her head on her sister's shoulder. "What are you reading?"

"It is called _The Memoirs of Emma Courtney_; Rosamond recommended it. You should not spend so much time with Mr. Price, Kitty. You know he is hardly the sort of gentleman of whom our father would approve."

"Where is Mamma?"

"She and Mrs. Rowley have gone to take the waters.—He has yet to prove himself a man of sense and intelligence; as it stands I think him nothing more than a fop, and a disagreeable one at that."

"Please, Mary," Kitty sighed, sitting upright again, "I do not wish to talk about Mr. Price."

"Indeed?" Mary regarded her critically. "He is all you _ever_ wish to talk about."

"He is not," Kitty protested, with a guilty little laugh. "I never talk of him in company, or to you or Rosamond or anybody. In fact I am sure I talk of him less than you talk of Robert."

"You and Mamma seem to have no other subject when you are together."

"Mamma likes to hear of him, I suppose," Kitty said carelessly, peeling off her gloves. "You know that that is her main delight: hearing of our adventures. It makes her feel like a girl again, and not like a lady married for twenty—oh, Lord, twenty-_five_ years, I suppose."

In truth this had never occurred to Mary, and she was obliged to consider it for a moment.

"How have you passed your day, Mary?" Kitty went on, giving her sister a bright smile. "_Mine_ has been very dull so far, but I hope yours has been better."

"I suppose _you_ would consider it dull," Mary replied stiffly. "I have been to Hart House, and come home, and spent the afternoon reading."

"Did you see Robert?" her sister asked automatically.

"He and his father had gone out to see a patient. I did see the elder Mr. Hart, however, for a brief moment; he was leaving as I was coming in."

"I quite adore Theo Hart," Kitty giggled. "I am sure I could very well have fallen in love with him, if he weren't already married. He is much more lively than Robert, and then Rose and Juliet and I could have been sisters. I shouldn't have minded being married to a barrister and living in Bath." _But I would much rather live in London_, she reminded herself silently.

"You 'quite adore' him?" Mary asked, mildly shocked.

"Oh Mary, you take everything so seriously," Kitty chided, but she was smiling.

Mary hesitated, unaccustomed to such good humor from her sister. Most frequently their exchanges devolved into ill-natured spats, but Kitty seemed quite unwilling to be bothered; in fact she almost seemed to be enjoying their conversation.

"I am sorry your day was so dull," Mary ventured, in the spirit of friendliness. "I was under the impression that you took a great deal of pleasure in Mr. Price's society."

Kitty gave another sigh. "He was not as amusing today, as he sometimes is," she admitted. "I suppose I am rather out-of-sorts; I did not sleep well last night, I think. Anyway I am sure it is only natural, when you spend so much time with a person, that they are not _always_ particularly engaging. Are you never bored by Robert's company?"

Mary blinked owlishly. "No," she replied immediately, then paused, to consider the question, and repeated, "No. He is perhaps sometimes rather flippant, I suppose, and prone to disagreeing with me—but I would not say that I am ever _bored_. Indeed the reason I esteem his friendship so highly is his capacity to engage in interesting and worthwhile conversation, which is far too rare in our polite society." She stopped there, aware that her sister looked rather deflated.

"Oh," Kitty said.

"But then," Mary offered, hesitantly, "I do not spend quite so much time with Robert, as you do with Mr. Price."

Kitty did not answer. Her brow was furrowed, and she was biting her lip. Mary, realizing she had nearly come to the defense of a man she rather loathed, went on hurriedly, "And I should not be surprised to find you growing tired of Mr. Price. His conversation is very limited, I find—he engages in all of the usual pleasantries, and makes some pretty compliment, and will not be drawn into any serious discourse or debate. He flatters and laughs and that is all. _I_ could not imagine enjoying a discussion with such a shallow mind."

"Well," Kitty said, after a moment, "let us talk of something else, anyway. Have you bought any new books? Are there any that _I_ may enjoy, or are they all quite dull and serious?"

Mary, a little relieved at the change in subject, assured her sister that she may very well enjoy _Evelina_, and gave a brief description of its themes and contents; and a conversation was begun, which was much more civil than many others they had enjoyed, and left both sisters with rather more favorable impressions of one another than they had previously entertained.

Yet Kitty went to bed that night in a curious state of discontent. She was not particularly alarmed by Mary's judgment of Mr. Price; she had long ago decided to discount her sister's opinions on that subject as wholly unfair and uninformed. Rather, it was her conversation with Mr. Price himself which still concerned her—his aversion to his family, his displeasure at discussing them, his irritation at her questions. She could not say why, but the matter vexed her greatly, and Alexander's final forceful insistence upon closing the subject had only served to feed her curiosity further.

The longer she considered the matter, the more she began to feel like a heroine in a novel. Some injustice had been done to her beloved, and she thought it only proper that she should wish to make everything right again. Perhaps, she thought, Alexander was mistaken in his estimation of his mother and sister, and she might soothe the troubled waters; or perhaps they had truly committed some horrendous sin against him, and she might see justice done. Whatever the case, she resolved to pursue the matter however she could.

With this purpose in mind, Kitty made full use of the greatest instrument at her disposal. Calling at Hart House on Saturday afternoon, she was informed that Miss Hart and Mr. Hart had gone out, and was directed to the little walking-park behind the house, where she found the twins walking with Oliver Finch beneath the dappled leaves.

Rosamond embraced her gladly. "How good to see you! I never know which Miss Bennet I will have the pleasure of meeting next."

"And are you not relieved it is me?" Kitty asked impishly. "Hello, Mr. Hart; hello, Mr. Finch." She curtsied.

The gentlemen greeted her rather more sedately than Rosamond had done. Mr. Finch, she was pleased to note, gave her a little smile before glancing away; but he seemed quite happy to let Robert give Kitty his arm, while he offered his own to Rosamond. The four of them walked together in agreeable conversation for a while, though nothing of any great value was said, and before long Mr. Finch and Rosamond had fallen back a little and appeared to be engaged in an earnest, if hushed, conversation of their own.

"They are speaking very seriously," Kitty said gleefully, though she wished she could speak to Rose alone, for _that_ was why she had really come to Widcombe. Robert, glancing over his shoulder, took in the scene behind them.

"Indeed they are."

"I wonder what they are talking about," Kitty went on. "I am sure it must be something of great import."

"I find that very few people discuss anything of 'great import,'" Robert replied drily. "More often we talk about things which we think vastly significant, but which are in fact very small concerns in the lives of very small people."

"Lord," Kitty laughed, "that is very hard upon your sister, and I daresay upon everybody else as well!"

"I mean no insult. I only mean that we, as a society, have a habit of considering all of our personal affairs very momentous when there is no need."

"_That_ I agree with," Kitty said, though she was not entirely sure she had his meaning aright. "I think everybody ought to laugh more, and think less."

"Perhaps that would solve a great many problems."

"_I_ think it would. But I do not know how you can speak so, and yet take so much pleasure in conversations with my sister Mary, who is always very serious and thinks every little thing a matter worthy of the gravest moral judgment."

Robert glanced at her and gave a little smile. "Your sister at least knows her own mind," he said. "It is only her perspective that may need adjustment."

Kitty did not understand what was meant by this, and instead looked back at Rosamond and Mr. Finch again. They were still speaking together, and Rosamond was smiling. Kitty wished they would walk a little faster. "But it must be a _very_ significant conversation," she said, "for they are very long about it, and taking great pains to keep it secret from us."

"Not so significant; I doubt any affairs of the world are being decided, or lives being changed."

"Oh," Kitty said, suddenly struck by the thought that perhaps Mr. Finch was taking the opportunity to press his suit. She elected to pursue the path of greatest discretion. "Perhaps you are right."

She and Robert walked on a little longer, before at last Kitty decided that though she could not speak to Rosamond just now, she may as well make do with her present companion; and so, as they stopped to wait for the others, she asked directly, "Mr. Hart, have you ever met a Miss Pamela Price?"

Robert seemed surprised by the question. "Is she a friend of yours?"

"No—well—I do not know her, but I understand she is Mr. Price's sister. He said she has been in Bath before, and I was wondering if you had ever met her. You and your family seem to know everybody who comes to Bath."

"We may have met, of course, but I cannot say with any certainty. You are addressing the wrong twin, Miss Bennet," he added, apologetically. "Rose is much better than I am at recalling names and faces."

"It does not matter," Kitty said, though truly she was rather disappointed. "I do not have any specific aim in mind," she added conscientiously, though Robert did not seem to be expecting an explanation, "only curiosity."

Robert nodded, but said nothing else.

Rosamond, upon hearing the name in question, bit her lip and admitted that though she had heard the name, she could not be _entirely_ certain whether they had ever met; but if they had, surely it was only for a moment or two. Kitty thought she saw a question in her friend's eyes, but Rosamond did not give voice to it, and instead only turned to Mr. Finch to ask if he had heard of the young lady.

To everyone's surprise, he had. "I have met her several times," was the immediate response. "Only briefly, and it was some time ago—but she spent a Season here. Do you not remember, Robert? You danced with her at the Upper Rooms."

Robert's eyes widened, and Rosamond laughed. "What a scoundrel you are, brother!" she teased. "To dance with a lady—to make her quite in love with you, no doubt—and then to forget her entirely! I am ashamed to be called your sister."

"It was only one dance, Miss Hart," Mr. Finch interjected, blushing, "your brother is not so villainous."

"But what was she like?" Kitty demanded eagerly. "Was she handsome? Was she well-tempered?"

"Was she a good dancer, Robert?" Rosamond asked mischievously.

Mr. Finch, belatedly realizing that he was the only one of the party who might answer Kitty's questions, met her eyes for a moment and glanced away. "She was most kind to her mother, whose health was quite poor at the time—I believe that was why they had come to Bath."

"When did they come?"

"It was two years ago now, I believe. Perhaps a little more."

"And did she mention her brother?"

"I cannot say that she did," Mr. Finch replied, quite stiffly. Kitty felt the awkwardness in his tone, but soldiered on.

"But was she amiable? Not only to her mother, I mean, but to everyone else?"

"She was. I thought her an agreeable girl, if rather—" He paused, and the others looked at him.

"Rather what?" Robert pressed. "You cannot stop there, Oliver; I am quite curious now."

Oliver gave his friend a weak smile. "She was rather distant," he finished at last. "She never seemed particularly happy in company; or so I thought. I imagine it was concern for her mother's health which made her so."

"How unfortunate," Rosamond said softly. "I do hope everything turned out all right."

"I believe her mother was recovered by the time they left Bath. But as to their present situation, I could not say."

Oliver was blushing a little, and did not meet anyone's eyes; his gaze was directed toward the swaying treetops. The four of them stood in silence for another moment, before Robert quietly suggested that they begin walking back to Hart House for some tea.

As they walked, Kitty considered the matter as it lay now. She was certain that Alexander could not have known how ill his mother had been, nor how it had worried his sister, or he would surely have affected a reconciliation; she also thought it possible that he had been mistaken in his sister's character, or that some great change had been affected in her since their last meeting—for she did not think Oliver Finch the sort to be taken in by feigned amiability, however foolish Alexander thought him. Perhaps she might persuade Alexander to contact his sister, and so begin a friendly correspondence between them, which might end in a happy reunion.

It also occurred to her that Oliver Finch was not telling them everything he knew about the young lady; his hesitation and faraway gaze was proof enough of _that_, but she could not consider this matter very deeply, for just then Rosamond asked "Why did you wish to know about Miss Price, Kitty?"

"Oh," Kitty answered, a little embarrassed, "only curiosity, you know."

"But how did you come across her name at all?"

"Why, Mr. Price mentioned her—but he did not tell me much about her, and I did not like to ask, for fear of seeming impolite."

Rosamond appeared to consider this.

"What a peculiar mind you have," Robert Hart interjected, with what Kitty hoped was a teasing tone, "to think it impolite to ask a gentleman about his own family, yet have no qualms about questioning everyone else."

"I do not mean any harm," Kitty protested, a little hurt.

"Perhaps not; but you certainly take a rather circuitous route," Rosamond agreed, laughing. "I am sure Mr. Price himself could give you the completest picture of his sister, if that is what you want."

"I do not think he likes talking about her," Kitty answered with a careful vagueness.

Neither brother nor sister had anything to say to this, and Mr. Finch had nothing to say at all, and their conversation turned to other things as they returned to Hart House. Kitty was glad of the change in subject. She could not help feeling a little awkward discussing Miss Price (or her brother, for that matter) with Mr. Finch; she felt sure that there had been some censure in his brown eyes.

She was surprised therefore, when, upon their leaving Hart House together (Kitty being bound for an engagement with Miss Wolfe in Milsom Street, and Mr. Finch returning to Larkhall to prepare for his Sunday duties), the gentleman very haltingly asked her whether Mr. Price was well.

"Indeed he is," Kitty said, taken aback that Mr. Finch had initiated any sort of conversation, let alone one regarding a gentleman for whom he clearly had no fondness. "I saw him only yesterday, and he was in the best of spirits."

"I am pleased to hear it."

Kitty was not certain this was the case, but appreciated her companion's effort, and said magnanimously, "You and Rose seem to be very much in each others' confidence. You were walking and talking so long together today, that Mr. Hart and I considered going back to Hart House without you."

"It was not our intention to keep you waiting."

"I did not mind it," Kitty answered, laughing. "But I am sure she likes you above anyone. I never see her smile so much when she is talking with certain _other_ gentlemen."

Mr. Finch's brow furrowed softly. "I always enjoy the lady's company," he replied, "and I hope she enjoys mine."

"She does," Kitty said confidently. "She told me she prefers your company to that of any other gentleman. Is that not kind of her?"

Rosamond had of course said no such thing, but Mr. Finch could not know that.

"Miss Rosamond is possessed of an excellent nature," he replied, "and I have never known her to be anything but kind. It is no wonder she is so generally well-liked; yet sometimes I do wonder that she likes _me_."

He said this very quietly, and immediately blushed very red, and looked as though he had not meant to say it at all. Kitty, her heart overflowing with tenderness, took his arm consolingly.

"Of _course_ she likes you," she declared cheerfully. "Even if you are rather reserved, and serious, you are really very amiable and Rose is clever enough not to mind the other things."

"Thank you, Miss Bennet."

"Is it not marvelous," she continued, "to find someone who likes you very much, even when you do not entirely know why? That is what it is like with Mr. Price," she added, a little consciously; for despite the sort of intimacy which had suddenly sprung up between them, she was hesitant to be _too_ open. But she went on, "He is always very kind to me, and says such wonderful things; and even though I do not always think they are true, it is lovely to know that _he_ thinks so."

Kitty was quite unprepared for the rush of relief which swept over her when she spoke of Alexander. She had not realized how very much she wished to have _someone_ to listen to her as she detailed the compliments he had paid her, and the various kindnesses he had done her, and the ways in which he looked at her. She suddenly, desperately wished she could speak this way to Rosamond, or Juliet, or even Mary—someone of her own age, who might giggle and gasp along with her. Mr. Finch glanced at her, but did not respond.

"Is that not how it is with Rose?" Kitty pressed, a little embarrassed.

There was a long pause; then, "Somewhat," Mr. Finch admitted. "She has always been most amiable. I am very glad to count her as a friend."

"There, you see," Kitty said, with satisfaction.

"She is very easy to talk to; perhaps" and now he was smiling, faintly, "more so than anyone else I know."

"If she does not mind talking with Mary," Kitty assured him, "she can never mind talking with _you_.—Mr. Price tells me that I am a brighter conversationalist than any other young lady, and more amusing as well. I am sure he is only flattering me, but it is nice to be flattered."

"Indeed."

"And," Kitty went on, feeling a wave of nostalgia for her whispered, tittering exchanges with Lydia, "he scoffs when I say that I am _not_ the beauty of my family (though that is because he has only ever seen Mary. He would certainly agree with me if he were ever to see Jane), and tells me I am prettier than any girl in Town. He says there is a simplicity to me that other young ladies lack. I cannot believe he finds me so beautiful as all that, but I think him the most charming man in the world for saying so."

"I understand he is very charming."

"The most charming man in the world," Kitty repeated with certainty. "I am sure I could never love anybody else."

Mr. Finch regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Are you, then—are you—engaged?"

Kitty bit her lip. "As it happens," she said, rather stiffly, "we are not."

Her companion said nothing, but glanced away, giving a small nod to a passing acquaintance. Kitty watched him carefully.

"Not yet," she amended, "but he already speaks of our living in Town together, and all of the things we will do when we are there, and how much he shall like to meet my father and sisters. So you see he can have no wicked designs upon me—not if he speaks of meeting my family. He is most particularly eager to meet my brothers-in-law, and if he wished to—to elope, why, then I am sure he should fear them above anyone else, for they are the ones who would hunt him down and fight him. Papa is too old."

"I did not imply that Mr. Price wished to elope."

"Well I am sure you thought it," Kitty said crossly. "It is what _everybody_ thinks, ever since Lydia ran away with Wickham. Everybody thinks I am silly and stupid and must be watched closely or I will do something very bad, but I am not such a fool as Lydia. I am older than she is, and I am sure I am cleverer too, or at least I understand things better. _I_ could not be induced to run away with a gentleman, merely upon his word."

Mr. Finch was staring at her with no small amount of surprise. It suddenly occurred to Kitty that he almost certainly did not know what she was talking about, and she blushed a little.

"Anyway," she finished, "Mr. Price does mean to marry me; of that, I am certain. And I mean to marry him, and then we will be together forever, like in a fairy-tale, and be so much in love that everyone else envies us."

"Then I wish you great happiness."

"Thank you," Kitty said, appeased. "And thank you for letting me speak to you so long, Mr. Finch; it is only that you are the only one who knows how matters stand between us—though I suppose Mamma guesses, but I cannot say anything more to _her_ or she will write to everyone in Meryton. It is nice to speak so freely."

"I do hope you will consider announcing the engagement," Mr. Finch replied, very seriously, "once it is official."

"Oh, of course we shall do so _then_.—You are very good at listening, Mr. Finch," she said. "I have no doubt that you will be a bishop before very long."

To her surprise, Mr. Finch smiled. "I am afraid it takes rather more than silence to be made a bishop."

"Whatever else is necessary," Kitty replied warmly, "I am sure you possess, or will learn quite quickly. Dr. Blackburn will be glad to have you as curate. And it is not only silence, you know—it is pretending to be interested. I know you do not like Mr. Price very well, but you do not tell me so when I speak of him. You are very impartial. That is why Mr. Collins is a poor clergyman," she added thoughtfully. "He has too many opinions, though they are mostly for the sake of pleasing his patroness, and he shares them too often. I hope, when _you_ have a patroness, you will not blather on about her so much."

"I will try not to."

"Particularly if your patroness is as dreary as Lady Catherine. But I do not think you are in danger of being like Mr. Collins. He speaks far more than you do, and always at great length, and it is never very interesting; and he is rather foolish and embarrassing in company; and he is not _nearly_ so handsome as you are."

This last was said entirely accidentally, and Kitty gave a little gasp, and flushed a deep red, and looked away; though she could not suppress a tiny giggle, which she smothered with her hand. Mr. Finch looked quite startled, and he too was blushing (though _he_ had not said anything foolish). Kitty supposed that, as a clergyman, he was not used to being told he was handsome. She hoped that Rosamond would endeavor to rectify this.

"Anyway," she said, with what she thought was admirable casualness, "I think you will be a very good curate, and an even better rector, and I hope that someday they put you in charge of the entire church. This is where I must leave you, for I am going to Milsom Street. Goodbye!"

And with a hurried curtsy and a flashed smile, she hastened away, leaving Mr. Finch standing rather confusedly upon the Pulteney Bridge.

* * *

Despite the spirited description of Alexander's charm which she had given Mr. Finch, Kitty could not help finding their next encounter as troubling as the previous one. Mr. Price had called at Henry Street, where Mrs. Bennet had fawned over him (as usual) and Mary had glowered at him over the top of her book (as usual), and Kitty had sat beside him on the settee, regarding him warmly and blushing when he glanced in her direction. His conversation with Mrs. Bennet was amiable and lively, and he was even polite to Mary, and afforded Kitty several very tender looks when her mother and sister were not watching. All of this was very pleasant, and Kitty luxuriated in the significant smiles which her mother gave her, and even flattered herself to think Mary's glances more jealous than disapproving (for how often did Robert Hart call at Henry Street, and make himself so agreeable, and then walk out with her?).

Upon their leaving the house together, however, Mr. Price immediately embarked upon a long catalogue of the many ways in which Kitty was more handsome, more engaging, more captivating than she had been when he saw her three days before; and Kitty suddenly found herself wishing, above anything, that he would talk about something besides _her_.

"Are you going to the fancy-ball on Thursday?" she interrupted him.

Alexander was startled, but recovered quickly. "I am, and I am looking forward to it very much."

"So am I," Kitty agreed, unaccountably relieved. "It has been too long since we have had a ball, and I do so want to dance."

"I shall be glad to partner you."

Kitty giggled. "Only two dances—any more, and everyone will begin to talk."

"We cannot have that."

His tone was very serious, but as Kitty glanced at him, he gave her a smile.

"Did you know," she said carefully, taking advantage of his good humor (not that he had any other sort), "that your mother and sister were in Bath only two years ago?"

The smile dropped from his face. Kitty's stomach sank.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I spoke to—to Rosamond," she said, hesitantly. "She said she had met Miss Price when she was in Bath, and that it was two years ago, or maybe a little more."

Alexander did not say anything. He was staring at the road ahead of them.

"She said that your sister was very amiable," Kitty ventured. "She liked her very much. I know you said that you thought Miss Price selfish and unkind, but surely there has been some great change in her since last you were together."

"Miss Hart does not know my sister."

"Why, surely she does not know her so well as _you_ do, but she said—"

"No, Kitty," he continued, his expression dark. "Miss Hart has not met my sister. I have known her for well over a year, now. Surely, if she were also acquainted with my sister, she would have mentioned her, or asked after her, or sent her compliments, or _some_thing along those lines."

Kitty did not have an answer for this. She did not like Alexander's tone; his voice was very low.

"So the question is," he continued, "where has this glowing report truly originated?"

Kitty took a deep breath. "Rose _has_ met Miss Price," she insisted, but went on charily, "though—she did not remember her very well, or they were never very intimate; she certainly must not have realized that you were related."

"Then to whom have you been speaking?"

"Well—I—" She hesitated; but she could not bear to lie to him any longer (and was a little afraid to, besides). "Mr. Finch knew her when she was here," she answered, quietly.

"Mr. Finch," Alexander said flatly.

"He was the one who said she was amiable, and that Robert Hart danced with her once. And he also said," she continued, remembering herself, "that they came to Bath because your mother was very ill, and that Miss Price was most kind to her, and took excellent care of her. He seemed as though he had thought very well of her."

To her surprise, Alexander gave a short bark of a laugh. "He was probably in love with her."

"Oh! I do not think so," Kitty said, reproachfully.

"No? Well, it does not matter. Oliver Finch—you do speak of Oliver, don't you? Yes, for you always speak of Oliver—Oliver Finch is a dullard and a prig, who likes everyone because he is not clever enough to do otherwise, but has not the strength of character to make anybody like _him_."

Kitty thought this highly unfair, and opened her mouth to say so, but Alexander went on,

"His word cannot compel me to think differently than I do of my sister, or of my mother, or of anybody else. And I do wish, Kitty, that you would stop meddling in my affairs; I have never appreciated inquisitiveness. I think it a grotesque quality, which transforms otherwise agreeable young ladies into gossipy fishwives."

Kitty was silent. She felt rather cold, not only because of the September chill in the air. At least, she thought vaguely, he had not shouted at her; _that_ should have greatly frightened her; but she could not help finding his low voice and hard eyes rather more menacing.

Alexander, glancing at her, seemed to realize this; and, putting his arm carefully about her waist, he drew her close to him.

"I love you," he said, softly. "But you do exasperate me sometimes."

Kitty averted her gaze and did not reply. The first time he had spoken to her so, she had cried and pled with him to forgive her; but she could not seem to find any tears within herself this time, much less any pleading.

"I do not understand why you are so interested in my family," Alexander continued. "I promise you, they are not worth your care and concern."

"I wish you would tell me how they have offended you. I would have you make amends."

"I wish _you_ would not pry," he replied, irritation seeping through his gentle tone. "There are no amends to be made."

"How can you know?"

Alexander breathed out through his nose and looked away for a long moment. When he turned to her again, his blue eyes were wide and soft.

"My love," he said, quietly, "my beauty, you must trust me. This is one of many areas in which you must trust that I know what I am about, and that I will not lead you astray. Besides," he added, giving her a wide smile, "it is unseemly for a wife to ask so many questions of her husband."

"I am not your _wife_," she said, rather bitterly.

"But I would have you become so."

Kitty turned to him; and, before her eyes, he dropped to one knee and took her hand. Her heart began to beat very fast and her face went red, then white.

"Katherine," he began, slowly, "I have made no secret of my feelings for you; from the first moment of our meeting, I have thought you sweeter, lovelier, more enchanting than any other young lady upon whom I have ever laid eyes. The goodness of your nature has captivated me, wholly and completely."

Kitty's palms were sweating, and she hoped he would not notice. Her irritation, her frustration, her doubt vanished in an instant—_he was proposing—he was asking her to marry him _(though she could not help wishing, only a little, that he would stop complimenting her, and simply ask the question)—

"When first I saw you," he continued, "I knew I must make you my own; I must have you beside me, every day, forever, for I could not bear to be parted from you. Your charms are refreshing in their simplicity, your laughter infectious, your smile like that of an angel; you are a bright star in a dark sky. My only wish is to spend the rest of my life making you happy, and showing you the world as you wish to see it, and proving to everyone the veracity of true love. Katherine, my Kitty, my sweet one, will you marry me?"

"Yes," Kitty mouthed, her voice gone entirely, but a moment later she was able to cry "Yes!" and throw her arms about him as he stood from the grass. "Yes, my love," she cried again, kissing him upon the cheek; "You have made me so happy!"

"You have made me happier," he replied, teasingly, taking her hand. "You do not know how long it has taken me to gather my courage."

"But why?" she demanded, laughing rather wildly, "For you knew I could only say yes!"

Mr. Price did not reply, but smiled at her, and began walking again. Kitty quieted as well, leaning dotingly upon his arm. There, she thought, rather smugly, she had been proved right; he did _not_ mean to elope or otherwise discredit her—he had proposed openly and honestly and very tenderly. She was to be _married_, a married lady with a house in Town which she could now, without hesitation, consider her very own, and a husband handsomer than any of her sisters'. She could not wait to tell Mary, and Rosamond, and anyone else who might have doubted him.

"How perfect," she exclaimed eagerly, the thought suddenly occurring to her; "now we may announce it at the ball on Thursday."

Alexander glanced at her, a little uneasily. "Perhaps we might wait awhile, my love, before we spread the news," he said hesitantly. "We cannot be married for a little while, at least; I should not like to marry you until all of my affairs are in order, and I am confident that I can support you in the style to which you are accustomed."

"The style to which I am accustomed is not very grand," Kitty assured him. "I have only one hundred a year."

"Even so, there are some investments upon which I am waiting, and some loans to be returned, and a few other matters which I must see to before the wedding. Besides," he went on, "I thought we might be married from London, and it will take me a little time to make the arrangements there."

"Oh." Kitty was a little crestfallen. "I thought we might be married from Longbourn, as were my sisters—well, not Lydia, but then that was a different matter."

"From Longbourn? But would you not like to begin our new life in London? I have a friend there, a clergyman, who can marry us; and surely your family can come see us in Town. Your mother will certainly appreciate the opportunity."

This was true, and Kitty reflected upon it for a moment. She had always imagined herself married from home—but London was so much more elegant, and, as Alexander pointed out, it was to be the site of their life together. Would it not be exciting to have a London-wedding? Rosamond would certainly be jealous, and Maria Lucas, and so many of her other friends.

"Well, then," she said, brightening, "I do not see why we may not be married in Town. But how long, do you think, until everything is arranged?"

"Oh—a few weeks, or a month or two. Not _very_ long."

This was less time than Kitty had anticipated.

"But I should like to continue as we have been until then. That is, discreetly—I would not have the gossips of Bath dissecting our engagement and speculating upon our chances of happiness. If we wait awhile, they will have less to talk about."

Kitty supposed this made sense, though she was rather disgruntled; she wished Alexander were not so concerned with what everybody else might say. "May I tell Mamma? I will ask her not to tell anyone."

"Of course you may tell your mother," Alexander answered, laughing. "_She_ must be the first to know; though your sister, I think, will not be pleased."

"La! I won't tell Mary; I will save it as a grand surprise, and give her a very bad shock indeed. And I shall do the same with my other sisters. They will all be very surprised when I suddenly invite them to my wedding!"

* * *

Mrs. Bennet reacted quite as her daughter expected: with a loud squeal, and a crushing embrace, and much stroking of Kitty's hair, and many happy tears. She was perfectly understanding of the need for secrecy (or discretion, as Mr. Price called it), and indeed condemned the local gossips for making things so difficult for young couples. "One cannot even speak to a gentleman without everyone speculating upon it," she said disgustedly, "and when one is engaged to be married, it is even worse; everyone is so very nosy, and there are so many rumors spread. I wish I could tell Lady Lucas! But I shall wait, as you suggest, my dear. How happy I am for you! How glad I will be, to see all my girls married! We must have him to dinner tomorrow!"

Mary, coming home from Mostyn's a little later, did not seem to notice her mother's jubiliation or Kitty's insistent outbreaks of giggles; or if she did, she did not attribute it to its true cause.

As the evening went by, however, Kitty sobered somewhat more quickly than she should have. The initial exhilaration of the proposal had passed, and she found herself frequently lost in thought. There was something which troubled her, pressing and pressing at her, but she could not tell what it was. Of course she was still a little bothered by Alexander's relationship with his mother and sister—that was only natural, for she loved him and she wished him happiness in all aspects of his life. But there was something else. It was a little niggling feeling, a tiny hum in her mind that every so often manifested itself as an unexpected sinking of the stomach or worrying of the lip.

_You are being ridiculous_, she told herself sternly. _It is only nerves; it is quite natural; there is no need to pay so much attention to it._

But she could not help it. She wondered if Jane or Lizzie or even Lydia had felt so, on the eve of their own engagements.

It was not until she was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, that it occurred to her. The candle was still lit, for Mary was reading (a new book, another recommendation of Rosamond's), and Kitty thought how very easy it would be to turn onto her side and make the announcement. It was only fair, she reasoned, that Mary should know. It was really rather unkind to keep it from her. And Alexander had not said she _shouldn't_ tell her sister; he had only said that she would not be pleased. And indeed, Mary would not be pleased—but they were sisters, and surely she would not be entirely horrible about it. She knew how Kitty loved him, and how she had waited for this day. Certainly she would at least offer her congratulations, however insincere.

Kitty rolled onto her side, propping her head upon her hand, and watched her sister. Mary was holding the book with one hand, the other tugging lightly on her earlobe, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. The hand at her ear came down and turned the page. Her eyes flicked from the end of one page to the beginning of the next. Her hand came up again, this time tangling in her hair and wrapping a strand around one finger.

Kitty suddenly realized that she did not _want_ to tell her sister. She did not want to tell Mary, or Rosamond, or Maria Lucas, or anybody else, though she could not say why. The thought brought a sudden lump to her throat.

"You are staring at me," Mary murmured, glancing at her. "Am I keeping you awake?"

"I am not very tired," Kitty said, and it was true.

"You may read one of my books, if you like."

Kitty rolled onto her back and rested her hands on her stomach. "No, thank you. I should like to think for awhile."

Mary gave an uncharitable little snort, and turned the page again.

Kitty lay silently, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, and thought without focus. She could not tell how long it was before Mary laid her book upon the little table between their beds, whispered "Goodnight, Kitty," and blew out the candle. She closed her eyes against the dark as she listened to Mary arrange herself in the bed. The evening had turned cloudy, and the light straining through the window was muted. Before much longer, only the soft sound of Mary's breathing filled the room. Kitty turned onto her side and tucked her hands beneath her pillow, biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut as she sank into a dreamless sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Kitty woke the next morning to find her mother at her bedside, beaming at her and shaking her shoulder gently.

"Good morning, my love," Mrs. Bennet said happily, seeing her daughter's eyes open. "I did not mind letting you rest, for I am sure you tossed and turned for hours last night. But it is quite late now, and I would not have you sleep the day away—your first day as an engaged woman!"

At the reminder, Kitty felt her stomach clench, though she did her best to ignore the feeling. Whatever was the matter with her?

"I thought we may go up to Milsom Street today," Mrs. Bennet continued, oblivious to her daughter's discomfort, "and choose a new gown for you. It will not be ready in time for Thursday, of course—"

"What is on Thursday?" Kitty interrupted.

"Why, the fancy-ball, my love! How silly you are; I can tell your Mr. Price has driven every other thought from your mind! If we order a gown today, as I was saying, it shall not be ready for Thursday, but surely for the _next_ ball—and by then perhaps everything will be in order, and you and Mr. Price may announce your engagement; and shouldn't you like to have a new gown for such an occasion?"

"Of course," Kitty said absently, sitting up and glancing out the window. The day was gray and dreary, though dry. She turned back to find her mother watching her pensively; upon meeting her daughter's eyes, Mrs. Bennet gave a wide smile.

"Come then, child, and have some breakfast. Mary and I have already eaten, but there is plenty saved for you—muffins and toast and a bit of ham, and even some chocolate, my love, to celebrate the day. Come, come!"

Kitty climbed obediently out of bed, and, as her mother hurried downstairs again, dressed herself with far less attention than she usually afforded the task.

It was not that she felt sad, or even anxious. It was more that she was having a difficult time feeling anything at all. Her mind seemed to be full of fog, her thoughts just out of reach. She did not really want to go to Milsom Street, even to buy a new gown; but neither did she want to stay at home, nor go walking in the park, nor call upon Rosamond or any of her other friends. She wished to be left alone, to think for awhile, but she could not bring herself to concentrate upon anything. Was this how she was meant to feel, she thought vaguely; was this the ordinary feeling of a just-engaged woman? But _there_, at that word, 'engaged,' she felt the pang again. That was all she could feel: emptiness and confusion and, as her thoughts drifted to Mr. Price and his proposal, a dull stab of—worry, or unease, or distress, or _something_ she could not name but that made her inhale sharply—

"Kitty?" Mary poked her head into the room. "Mamma is waiting. Are you unwell?"

"No," Kitty replied, affording her sister a very faint smile. "I am coming directly."

Her sister watched her for a moment, but Kitty said nothing else. Evidently satisfied, or else uninterested, Mary vanished around the doorframe and her footsteps receded down the hallway to the stairs. Kitty returned her gaze to the looking-glass.

"Stop being silly," she told herself sternly. "You are only suffering from nerves, and from too much happiness. Everything will be better soon. Once you see Alexander again, everything will be better."

She gave herself a determined grin, which was more akin to a grimace, for good measure, and went down to her breakfast.

"Have you told your sister of your good fortune?" Mrs. Bennet whispered eagerly, meeting Kitty in the breakfast-room. "She has not said anything to me, but I then I never can tell what she thinks."

"I have not told her," Kitty replied dully as she took her seat. "I do not think I shall tell her until it is more official—until we can announce it to _everyone_, you know. Otherwise I am afraid she will write to Papa, and Lizzie and Jane and everyone else."

Mrs. Bennet gave a laugh. "Well, but after all, your father must be informed, my dear. Let Mary write to him! She does take such delight in writing letters."

"Oh—but I would rather tell him myself," Kitty protested, looking up at her mother with wide eyes.

Mrs. Bennet acceded to her daughter's request with good grace. Indeed, she was willing to let Kitty have her own way in anything, so pleased was she to be the mother now of three married daughters, and one officially engaged. That Kitty seemed less ecstatic than herself did not worry her; she could well recall the dazed feeling of awakening to the knowledge that one's entire life was going to change, and that the object which had been sought for so long (that is, a doting husband with a fine income and a handsome figure) had at last been attained. Mrs. Bennet's own long-ago happiness at receiving an agreeable proposal had manifested itself in happy tears and exclamations of delight; Jane, too, had wept joyfully, and declared that it was all too much; Lizzie had been quite unable to suppress her smiles; and Lydia, returning to Longbourn as a married woman, had giggled and smirked plentifully. Kitty's happiness, Mrs. Bennet was certain, was only taking another route of expression: that of wistful sighs and thoughtful glances which, she knew, were only hiding a dancing heart. It was more the sort of thing she might have expected from Mary, but then, one could never tell with these young girls who read so many novels.

Kitty ate quickly, for she found that she was not really very hungry, though she did enjoy her cup of chocolate; and they set out from Henry Street not long after, a party of mixed attitudes: for though Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain her glee, Kitty remained languid and preoccupied and Mary (who had been ordered to come along, after her mother had discovered that she had brought only _two_ ball-gowns to Bath, in spite of there being a ball at least _once per week_ at the Assembly Rooms, what had she been thinking!) was disgruntled at being denied her usual morning at Hart House.

"You practice there far too much," Mrs. Bennet snapped, when her daughter complained; "you will make the Harts quite sick of you. Let Robert see you next at the ball, where you will look very ravishing; _that_ will remind him what he is about."

She had indeed grown very impatient that Robert Hart had not yet proposed; to have one daughter well on the path to matrimony only served to remind her that the other was loitering behind. Mary, not wishing for an argument, was silent, but did not bother to curb her sulkiness.

Kitty roused herself a little when they came into the first shop, for indeed she loved shopping for clothes; even buying new ribbons from the little shop in Meryton had always been a source of delight. She was happy to point out patterns and fabrics which pleased her, and to turn up her nose at those that did not. But every so often the thought would creep up in the back of her mind—_Perhaps I will wear this in London someday—_and though it was a thought which had thrilled her before today, now she found herself biting her lip and wrinkling her brow whenever it raised its head.

Mrs. Bennet's mind appeared to drift, though more happily, in the same direction. "Is this not lovely, with the embroidery all down the front?" she exclaimed over one bolt of silk. "I daresay it would look very well upon the floor of Almack's!" She winked at Kitty, who smiled faintly.

Mary frowned. "We are not going to Almack's," she said.

"Of course not, my love. It was only wishful thinking." Mrs. Bennet winked at Kitty again. Kitty wished she would not do so.

"Well I for one have no desire to ever dance at Almack's," Mary returned bad-naturedly, examining a checked cotton. "The Assembly Rooms are bad enough."

Her mother ignored her, but Kitty, leaning over her sister's shoulder, declared Mary's chosen fabric to be the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

Their day of shopping was rather longer than either of the Bennet sisters would have liked, and the afternoon grew leaden as the hours went by, until, having placed their final orders, the ladies emerged from the last shop to find themselves met by a thunderous sky and a splatter of very cold raindrops.

"How disagreeable!" Mrs. Bennet cried, for she had forgotten to bring the umbrella. "We shall have to take a chair—" But there were none to be found; those that rushed by were already occupied, and nobody seemed to have any intention of stopping. Around them, people were ducking hurriedly into shops and doorways. The patter of raindrops on the cobblestones grew louder as the downpour thickened. "Well, come along, girls!" Mrs. Bennet ordered, taking each of her daughters by an arm and steering them along the street to a tea-shop. "We cannot walk home in this!"

The tea room was crowded, for it seemed many other people had had the same idea. Mrs. Bennet surveyed the interior of the shop critically, but could not find anyone of their acquaintance; and so the ladies arranged themselves about a very small table near the door, removing their wet wrappings and draping them over the backs of their chairs.

"What a dreary day," Kitty sighed. She had the seat by the window, and was watching the rain slide down the glass panes.

"Outwardly, perhaps," Mary replied brusquely, for she was tired and bored and now wet and cold, "but you cannot be so dissatisfied as all that, Kitty, for we have spent the morning and part of the afternoon in pursuit of frivolous pleasures—is that not your preferred pastime?"

"Lord! How unkind you are to me, Mary, when I did not say anything bad," Kitty said, a little hurt. "Do you see how unkind she is to me, Mamma?"

"Do hold your tongue, Mary," Mrs. Bennet ordered.

Mary was somewhat abashed, for really Kitty had not said anything very disagreeable, and she looked down at the table.

"I hope it will be bright again tomorrow," Kitty said wistfully. "This weather makes me feel very out-of-sorts."

Nobody had anything to add to this remark, and they sat in a damp silence for a moment or two, before the serving-girl brought their tea and scones. They ate quietly, until Kitty, glancing out the window again, spotted a familiar figure.

"Mary!" she said, without the giggle which would have ordinarily accompanied the statement; "Mary, Robert Hart is coming."

Mary's focus had been upon her tea, but she looked up interestedly; Mrs. Bennet gave a gasp of horror.

"He is not!" she hissed, leaning over to look out of the window. "He must not! Oh, Mary, and you with your hair so wet and loose, and your dress full of mud. Is he coming in here, Kitty?"

"I think so," Kitty said, through a mouthful of scone, "he has just come from a doorway on the other side of the road, and is looking over here. Shall I wave to him? He can probably see me, through the window."

"No, my love," her mother insisted, "for we are not prepared to meet him—look only at the state of your sister's hair!"

Mary, who did not think she looked so very terrible—only a wetter version of her usual self—scowled.

"I think he has seen me," Kitty reported, "or at least he wishes for a dry place to go, for he is crossing the road. Yes—here he comes."

And indeed the door opened then and Robert Hart stepped in.

"Well, there is nothing for it," Mrs. Bennet muttered, "we must make of this what we might. Mr. Hart!" she exclaimed, turning to greet him warmly. "What a charming surprise! Will you join us?"

He did so gratefully, removing his wet coat as he took the seat between the two sisters.

"Have you been caught in this shower as well?" he asked the ladies. "I did not think it would rain when I set out this morning."

"Then you thought the gray skies an empty threat?" Mary asked tartly, but she was smiling at him.

"I confess I did; perhaps it was hubris on my part." He smiled at her in return.

"But what brings you to this part of town, sir?" Mrs. Bennet asked pleasantly, satisfied with this show of amiability between the two of them. "Mary has given me to understand that you work in your father's practice most days."

"And so I do. I was called to see a patient across the road here."

"How unfortunate. I do hope nothing is very wrong.—We have been shopping," Mrs. Bennet reported, "for new ball-gowns, which we might wear at the fancy-ball—not this week's, of course, but next Thursday."

"I shall look forward to seeing them then."

"Yes, indeed you must," Mrs. Bennet answered coyly, giving him a knowing smile, "for Mary in particular has found something _very_ lovely—a beautiful pale muslin that will have beads all along the bodice—I shall not bore you with the details, for I understand that gentlemen really care very little for descriptions of finery; but I am sure you will find it especially charming."

Mary sighed. Robert gave her a small private smile, which Mrs. Bennet unfortunately caught.

"Indeed, sir," that lady went on prettily, warming to her theme, "however unattractive Mary looks _now_, you must, once you have seen her in her new gown, only think of how she looks _then_, and that must be the picture of her which you carry along with you, forever."

"Mamma!" Mary exclaimed, reddening.

"I do not think Miss Bennet so very unattractive just now," Robert answered honestly, "only a little damp."

Kitty, who had been silent, heard this with a startling pang; for though she knew very well that Alexander Price, in Robert's place, would have said something far more elegant—would have assured Mrs. Bennet that he thought her daughter the most striking of beauties under any circumstances, or that he could not imagine her looking more charming than at this very moment, or something similar—she could not help finding Robert's sincerity rather sweet and, if she was honest with herself, perhaps preferable to a graceful compliment. She frowned into her tea.

"Are your sisters looking forward to Thursday's ball?" Mrs. Bennet asked.

"Very much; Juliet, in particular, is still young enough to delight in all these sorts of events. It is only her first year 'out.'"

"She is a sweet girl," Mrs. Bennet declared, happy to offer whatever praise she could to the family of her intended son-in-law. "She is such a pretty creature, and has an exceedingly good nature. We are all very fond of her. She is sure to marry well."

"That may be, but my family and I hope it will be some years yet before that is a consideration. My father, in particular, hopes to delay the event for as long as possible; she is the youngest, you know, and he still thinks her a little child."

"I understand. Mr. Bennet and I feel quite the same about Mary and Kitty—but, of course, such things cannot be put off forever. Sooner or later, our daughters must all marry and make homes of their own, and Mr. Bennet and I shall have nothing to do but visit them." She patted Kitty's hand fondly. "And for us, you know, that day is coming ever closer; the girls are not children anymore. Mary, in particular, is _quite_ old enough to be married. Quite old enough," she repeated, giving Robert a rather critical stare, which he pretended not to notice. "I am sure she would not like to be living at Longbourn forever, after all of her sisters have married and set up housekeeping. Would you, my dear?"

"I like Longbourn," was Mary's defensive reply.

"Of course you do, child, but you would not like to live there _forever_. I am sure you would not."

"_I_ would not," Kitty interjected. "I want to live in London after I am married; or perhaps here in Bath, but I would prefer London. Of course I will come visit Longbourn very often—very often," she said again, rather sadly, for suddenly the prospect of living in London seemed more frightening than exciting, and there was a lump in her throat.

"And we should be glad to see you, my love, and have you stay with us for as long as you might. It would be much better than having Lydia so far away in the North."

"I would never want to live in London," Mary sniffed. "I think it a most coarse, dirty place, quite without redeeming qualities."

"Have you ever been?" Robert asked, with a little grin.

"I have been once, to visit my aunt and uncle in Cheapside."

"Oh, Mary, that was when we were children," Kitty said disgustedly. "We were too young to enjoy it properly. It would not be the same if we were to go now; we could stand up at balls and go to parties, and dine out, and visit the shops."

"I fear you will never convince your sister of London's worth, if you talk to her of balls and parties," Robert warned her teasingly.

"I suppose not—but there are bookshops as well, and that sort of thing. Where do _you_ want to live, Mr. Hart, after you are married?"

"Here in Bath, I suppose," Mrs. Bennet broke in. "Why should anyone wish to live anyplace else? Particularly a physician, for it is so fashionable to be ill here; and with your family so close, I am sure you could not do better."

"In fact I begin to think that one Dr. Hart can handle Bath quite adequately," Robert replied. "I might like to go somewhere new—a little village in the country, perhaps, where my work is not limited to the treatment of gout and nervous head-aches."

"You do not want to live in the country," Kitty protested, with great conviction. "It is boring, and there is no society to be had, and nothing to ever talk about. After living in Bath your whole life, you would find it most horribly dull."

"I am sure you are right; but there, perhaps, I might do some real good."

His voice was quiet, and Kitty was for a moment quite irritated, for it was a very morally admirable sort of response and, she thought with another little frown, probably not at all the sort of thing Alexander would have said. When had Robert Hart become so sanctimonious? It was no wonder Mary liked him so well, for she was as priggish as anyone.

Mary was, in fact, currently engaged in liking Robert _very_ well, for precisely this reason, and she gave him a warm smile over the top of her teacup.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet said, growing anxious, for Mary's hair was drying in a most unflattering frizz across her forehead and it would not do for Robert to look at her that way for too long, "I think the rain has stopped. Does it not seem so, Kitty?"

"It has," Kitty said, from her place by the window.

"Then we ought to hurry home, before it starts again—I do not like the look of those clouds. No, no, do not get up, Mr. Hart; sit and finish your tea! Give our compliments to your good father, and to your sisters and your brother; we shall look forward to seeing you all at the ball on Thursday."

"Thank you, and I shall look forward to seeing you." He stood despite Mrs. Bennet's admonishment, as the ladies tucked their shawls securely about them.

"And even though we will not have our new gowns _yet_, we shall nonetheless take care to look very elegant, so that you will not think of us forever with muddied hems and damp hair," Mrs. Bennet added. "Come along, girls."

"Goodbye, Mr. Hart," the sisters chorused, curtsying and receiving a bow in return. Kitty, the last to go out the door, gave him a very curt nod, still annoyed with him for reasons she did not (or would not) pause to examine.

"Are you not glad we came up to Milsom Street today, Mary?" she heard Mrs. Bennet ask. "Though it is a shame he could not have seen you at better advantage."

Mary did not respond, but turned to look back over her shoulder at the tea-shop where Robert still sat and, catching Kitty's eye, gave her sister a smile. This only served to push Kitty deeper into her funk, and she looked away, lips twisting; for it was rare that Mary looked so content, and though Kitty knew she should not begrudge her sister any happiness, she could not help feeling a little—well—jealous.

_How stupid I am_, she thought crossly. _How can I be jealous of Mary or anybody, when _I _am the one who is engaged? And Alexander is really more handsome than Robert, and more charming as well; and he would never give up London for some drab little village._

Yet for some reason, this was but cold comfort. She shook her head to clear it, and hastened her steps to catch up with the others.

* * *

Kitty's ill humor faded as the day went on, but she remained enmeshed in the fog that had surrounded her ever since Mr. Price's proposal. She found herself shamefully glad that her betrothed was unable to dine with them, and that she would not see him until the ball; for whatever reason, she half-dreaded being left alone with him, and being obliged to endure his tender conversation (which she had been used to think a marvelous privilege, rather than a chore). This thought filled her with a very sick cold feeling which she tried to ignore, but her sleep that night was troubled, and she awoke on Wednesday morning with a head-ache.

"You look very poorly," Mary commented, when Kitty came down to breakfast.

"I am well," Kitty replied shortly.

"You do not look well. Does she not look poorly, Mamma?"

"You are rather pale, my love," Mrs. Bennet agreed, examining Kitty's wan features. "I hope you are not ill; I hope you have not caught a chill."

Kitty only pushed some food about her plate. She found she did not have much appetite; her heart was pounding too much to eat, though she did not know why she should be so anxious. She took a deep breath.

"I am going to Hart House to practice," Mary said, rather hesitantly, "and I am sure Dr. Hart would not object to seeing you, very briefly, when he has a moment in between patients. Or Robert could see you, if his father is too busy. Should you like to go with me?"

But the thought of watching Robert and Mary smile at each other over her aching head was repugnant.

"Then you must rest today," Mrs Bennet said decisively. "I fear you may have caught a chill from the rain yesterday; _that_ would be a dreadful thing. I am sure you could not bear to miss the ball tomorrow. You must rest all day today, and not stir from this house. I will have a fire built in the sitting-room, or you may go back to your bed, if you like."

Kitty submitted, for she was too tired to do otherwise, and directly after breakfast she settled herself in the sitting-room with a few of Mary's books at her elbow (novels bought with Rosamond's guidance, of course; no matter how ill she was, Kitty could never be induced to read _sermons_), though presently she did not feel like reading them. She was staring into the fire when Mary came in, buttoning her spencer.

"I hope you feel better," she offered awkwardly.

"Thank you."

Mary stood there for a moment more, shifting uncomfortably on her feet.

"Katherine," she said, finally, not quite meeting her sister's eyes, "I am aware that our tempers are not particularly well-suited, and our interests are quite divergent; and I am aware that you find me as prosy as I find you silly and shallow; but I hope you know that I—I also love you."

Kitty started and looked up at her. It was the first time, at least in recent memory, that Mary had ever said she loved her, without being prompted by well-meaning aunts or elder sisters impatient to end a squabble.

"Thank you," she said, at last. "I love you."

"And I hope you know," Mary went on, her face very red, for this was not the sort of thing in which she had any sort of practice, "that if something is causing you distress, I would not mind listening, if you would like to tell me about it."

And indeed Kitty suddenly wished nothing more than to tell Mary everything, if only for the sake of giving voice to all the things that hovered just out of her mental reach. She swallowed hard. Her heart was still pounding and her stomach was full of flutters. She wondered if this was how her mother felt during one of her nervous attacks.

"It is, after all," Mary continued, "the happy duty of the elder sister to provide guidance as well as solace, and to conduct her younger sisters through the world, affording them all of her protection and her knowledge."

At this, Kitty's heart sank. "Guidance as well as solace" was precisely what she had feared from Mary, for it would inevitably take the form of a lecture, which would only serve to make her cross and angry (as Mary's lectures always did), and provoke her into doing something spiteful. Besides which, she thought, what knowledge could Mary have of secret engagements? For all her reading and all her morality, Mary was no better-versed in the nuances of Society, or Feelings, or Attachments, or anything else, than Kitty herself. She could give no advice that would be truly useful; all she had to offer were platitudes and intonations of moral and social correctness. But Kitty quelled these thoughts; they were uncharitable of her, when Mary was trying so hard to be kind and sisterly.

"I never—I never bothered, much, with Lydia," Mary was saying, "but I ought to have tried harder to show her what was right, and keep her from exposing herself to the dangers of the world. I ought to have paid her greater attention, and loved her better in spite of her faults. I should not like for you to be as unhappy as she is if such a fate is within my power to prevent. Whatever is wrong, Kitty, I would have you tell me, so that I can help you."

Kitty met her sister's eyes again and attempted a smile. "There is nothing wrong," she said quietly. "I slept ill last night; that is all."

Mary watched her for another long moment, but Kitty's smile did not waver.

"All right," she said at last, "well, then, I will go. Do feel better."

Kitty nodded, and smiled, and sent her love to their friends, and Mary—with one last long look—disappeared.

* * *

"Perhaps she is merely suffering from a chill," Rosamond suggested, an hour later, as she and Mary sat in the drawing room at Hart House. "She seemed perfectly cheerful when I saw her on Saturday; and you were caught in the rain yesterday."

Mary shook her head. She had attempted to practice, but had been unable to concentrate on the music, and had somewhat sheepishly asked Rosamond if they might talk a little instead.

"Kitty is rarely ill," she replied, "and besides, her only symptom is a want of spirits, which has affected her these two days past. I am sure there is some other force at work here, which is causing her some great distress; but she will say nothing to me."

"Does your mother share your concern?"

"No," Mary said, rather bitterly; "Mamma only worries that she may not feel well for the ball tomorrow. But my mother, however affectionate, is not the most astute of creatures: she sees only what pleases her. She still believes that Robert plans to propose to me, and she holds that Kitty is only a little fatigued, and will be better if she rests for a day. I am sure the thought of any deeper trouble has not crossed her mind."

They sat in a considering silence for a long moment.

"It is only," Mary burst out, in a sudden flash of frustration, "that I _want_ to help. I _always_ want to help. Everyone seems to think that I give speeches and lectures to seem clever, but that is not it. I say things because I think they will educate and uplift, and perhaps provide some sort of guidance; I want to be of use. But nobody ever listens to me! Mamma does not listen; my sisters certainly do not listen; even Papa thinks I am as silly as the others, if not so noisy."

Rosamond said nothing, but regarded her friend sympathetically.

"People listen to _you_," Mary bit out. "Your brothers and sisters, even your father: they all respect your judgment, even when they do not agree with you. Your sister looks upon you almost as a mother, and _mine_ looks upon you as—as a sister." She swallowed, but went on. "_You_ are free to dispense advice as you please, and very often people take it, and are happier for it. I do not understand why I cannot do the same."

"You can," Rosamond said gently.

"No, I cannot, or Kitty would not lie to me so, and my father would not think me a fool."

There was another long moment of silence. Rosamond, biting her lip, seemed to be debating something within herself; at last, she answered:

"If I may, Mary, I might suggest that you allow yourself to speak more often."

"I am always speaking," Mary grumbled, her frustration wearing itself out.

"I do not mean it in that way. I mean—well—perhaps Kitty might find greater value in what you think is right, rather than what Mr. Fordyce thinks proper behavior for a young lady. Do you see what I mean?"

Mary frowned at her.

"It is all very well," Rosamond pressed on, gaining strength, "to read books of morality and philosophy, and to seek guidance and inspiration from those works. The worst fool in the world is one who does not read—_but_—almost as bad is a fool who adopts every convincingly written word as ideology. I hope I do not speak out of turn," she added demurely, as Mary gaped, wounded. "I know how much interest and pleasure you derive from your reading, and such is only to be celebrated. But surely, Mary, you have drawn your _own_ conclusions from these works; surely you have your private disagreements with them; surely you have, at least once, wished (however quietly) that Mr. Fordyce would keep his stuffy opinions to himself, for _he_ is not a young woman, and never has been, and cannot have much authority to dictate sermons to us."

"I do not _only_ read Fordyce," Mary protested, rather weakly.

"Of course not. But do you see what I mean? You did not hesitate to pick at all the little oddities of _The Italian_; you might learn to do the same with your moralists and philosophers.—And where Kitty is concerned," she went on, "you might remember that to each of us, the little agonies of our lives, however universal, seem remarkably private; and thus there is small comfort in being read lines that are meant to apply to everyone."

It was perhaps the longest speech Mary had ever heard from her usually tranquil friend, and certainly the closest thing Rosamond had ever offered to a direct criticism.

"For what are such books written, if not to guide us?" she demanded stiffly, still reeling from Rosamond's unexpected candor.

"That is easy enough to answer," was her friend's placid response. "They are written to express a particular viewpoint; every book is. The writers think themselves authorized to present their own ideas of education, behavior, propriety and moral sense. Yet the fact that these books are not novels, does not make them infallible. They ought to be taken with a grain of salt, like anything else."

"But—"

"You know what it is to treat people well," Rosamond said, more firmly. "I would posit that you do not need anyone to tell you—not now that you are already so well-educated, at any rate," she added, rather teasingly.

Mary sat back in her chair and considered this for a long moment. She had long prized herself on her ability to be completely honest within her own mind, and thus, though she bristled a little at some of Rosamond's phrasing (for, after all, her friend had come very close to calling her a fool), and at the idea of following the advice of a young lady she had not so very long ago dismissed as quite emptyheaded, she could not deny that Rosamond's words had a ring of sense to them. She wondered how long, exactly, Rosamond had been waiting to say this to her; something in the young lady's posture, the set of her features, the weight of her gaze, suggested that it was not a spontaneous lecture.

"And so what do you suggest I do?" she asked faintly.

Rosamond gave her a smile. "Do not worry so much about guiding your sister," she offered. "Only listen to her, and put aside the opinions you have read in favor of your own."

Mary bit her lip. But—

"Kitty will not even tell me what is wrong," she said finally. "It is all very well to discuss how I _ought_ to help her, how I ought to try and speak with her, but the fact remains that she will not allow me to do so. She will continue to smile and shake her head despite anything I say to her. I know my sister; she is exceedingly stubborn."

"Is she?" Rosamond answered, with a hint of irony.

"Yes," Mary insisted. "And if she does not wish to speak with me, then she cannot be induced."

"I am sorry."

"But," Mary said, the idea suddenly striking her, "perhaps you might try and speak with her, and at least discover what is troubling her."

Rosamond was shaking her head. "We have already tried that," she replied, "and it did not work well."

"But this is not a case of trying to persuade her," Mary said, "for of course_ that_ was unsuccessful, given my sister's temperament and the strength of her attachment to Mr. Price." She frowned at the memory. "This is only speaking honestly with her. You are her particular friend; of course she will be open with you. She was prepared to take you into her confidence from the first hour of your meeting. Please, Rosamond," she urged, seeing that young lady still look doubtful. "We must not abandon Katherine to the depths of sorrow and confusion, or allow her to commit some rash act which she will regret forever. Your duty, one who loves her, is to offer her your kind ear and help her to shoulder whatever burden is presently creating such distress. Think only how greatly you would despair, if you were to lose her friendship forever, due to a reluctance to interfere."

Rosamond laughed a little. "Perhaps you ought to take up writing," she teased, "or perhaps you ought to join Theo and practice law; I never knew you to possess such a gift for rhetoric!"

"Then you will speak with her?"

"I will; but I do not think I will try at the ball tomorrow, for a ballroom is not the place for shared confidence. I shall call on Friday, and perhaps she and I might go walking."

Mary thanked her, though a little sadly; for she would much rather have spoken to Kitty herself, than coerced Rosamond into doing so on her behalf. Had Lydia been in Bath, she knew, Kitty would not have hesitated to divulge any and all secrets with _her_; even Lizzie or Jane would have been greatly preferred to Mary as a confidante. She gave a little sigh and looked down at her hands.

"Should you like to practice some more now," Rosamond asked gently, "or should you like to talk a little longer?"

Mary elected to return to the pianoforte, her mind somewhat eased, and Rosamond took up a book, and within a few minutes Juliet came into the room with her writing-table. But the peaceful scene was interrupted, before very long, by the maid's announcement that Lord Adlam had come to call. The gentleman entered (the first time, Mary thought, that she had ever seen him outside of a ballroom) and greeted the young ladies with all of the proper civility and grace—even remembering Miss Bennet's name, despite their very brief acquaintance; but Mary guessed, by the hastily-smothered giggle of the younger Miss Hart, and by the light blush of the elder, and by the way the gentleman's gaze seemed entirely fixed upon Rosamond's smile, that her company was not especially desired, and she made her excuses.

"How foolish they are," Juliet whispered, taking Mary's arm as they left together (for despite her youth, Juliet was quite astute), "he has been in love with her for ages, and now she with him, and yet they behave quite as if there were nothing particular between them."

"You think she is in love with him, then?" Mary said, taking care to keep her voice low.

"Oh, to be sure!—Though she will not say so. Anne and I have very long talks about it, for we like to discuss marriages and things more than the others. My brothers say it is very dull of us, and Papa thinks it silly, but we enjoy it. And so far we have been correct, every time."

"Indeed?" Mary said, a little amused in spite of herself, as she buttoned her spencer.

"Yes: we knew that Mr. Burke and Miss Smith were going to be engaged, and we knew about Mr. Wolfe and Miss James, and we are quite sure about Captain Finch and Miss Dalton. And so we know what we mean when we talk about Rose and Lord Adlam, and about R—oh!" Here she stopped suddenly, and looked very embarrassed, and glanced away.

Guessing the reason for the girl's discomposure, Mary gave her a small smile, and said only "So long as you do not succumb to the evils of malicious gossip, I believe there are far worse habits in which you and Mrs. Hart might indulge."

Juliet smiled and agreed, relieved, and the two young ladies curtsied to one another as Mary took her leave.

* * *

The evening passed quietly at Henry Street. Kitty had slept a little during the day, to her mother's great satisfaction, and so was feeling a little better; but she was still distracted and oddly fretful, and gave only very brief responses to any questions asked of her, and would not be drawn into any conversation. Mrs. Bennet, still convinced that Kitty was only dizzy with the bliss of her long-looked for engagement, did not concern herself any further with the matter; her daughter was feeling well enough to dance at the Upper Rooms, after all, and that had been her primary source of worry.

Mary, on the other hand, watched her sister anxiously, and hoped that the power of Rosamond's encouraging smile and kind manner would be enough to restore Kitty to her natural self.

For her part, Kitty was more confused than she had been before. Despite having been granted an entire day at home, largely alone, with nothing to do but think—something which did not happen often, for Kitty was the sort of young lady who likes to be active and busy—she had failed to come to any significant conclusions as to the source of her present malaise. She had arrived at the somewhat distressing realization that the thought of seeing Alexander tomorrow filled her with a nameless dismay and a bubbling feeling of—vexation, or distaste, or what, she could not say; she was a little afraid of being left alone with him; but the thought of losing him filled her with the same dismay. She did not want to see him, but she did not want to be apart from him. Her heart leapt at the thought of being married, of having a wedding and being called "Mrs. Price" forevermore, and moving through the glittering ballrooms and lush dining-rooms of London—but at the thought of sitting alone with him in an apartment somewhere (however finely furnished) made her stomach clench. She did not feel for him, now, the same camaraderie and esteem which was so apparent in the relations between her elder sisters and their husbands, and she wondered if she ever had. But then she remembered the blue of his eyes, the curve of his smile, the strength of his arm as they walked together, and melted once again.

Her mind, then, was reeling with conflict and doubt. She could not seem to come to any consensus within herself, and as a result she could not begin to think of what action—if any—ought to be taken. Her fears were so sudden, coming so unexpectedly upon the heels of that "consummation devoutly to be wished," the proposal for which she had looked since August. It did not seem quite fair, somehow: she had passed all of this time so desperately in love with Alexander, so glad of his attention and his appreciative of his charms, and yet now that their bond was official (and soon to be made more so), she immediately found herself doubting him, and annoyed with him, and a little afraid of him. Why was it that getting what she wanted only served to make her unhappy?

Surely, she told herself, it was natural for a young lady, about to be married, to wrestle with doubt and anxiety; but then, was it natural for the thought of one's beloved to fill one with dread half of the time, and with tenderness the other half? She did not know. She wished Lizzie were there, or Jane, or even Lydia, so that they might reassure her. Had Lizzie always loved Mr. Darcy—had Jane never questioned her choice in agreeing to marry Mr. Bingley—had Lydia never regretted running away from Brighton with Mr. Wickham? She thought of asking her mother; but Mrs. Bennet had been so delighted with the news of Kitty's engagement, that she feared watching her mother's face fall upon hearing of her misgivings.

She had mulled all of this over in her mind throughout the day, over and over, and did so again now as she was undressing for bed; and it seemed just as much a Gordian knot, unwilling to be cut.

Lying back in her bed, closing her eyes, Kitty breathed deeply and attempted to think of something else—or, more preferably, to think of nothing at all. Little by little, as she listened to the peaceful sound of Mary turning pages and focused upon the warm dark behind her eyelids, her mind began to empty. Before very much longer, all that were left were impressions of things she had seen and heard:

The darkness of Alexander's expression as she spoke of his sister;

The private little smile between Mary and Robert as they sat in the tea-shop;

Mrs. Bennet's noisy exclamations of delight at Kitty's good fortune;

Alexander's large blue eyes fixed upon her across a ballroom, and the purpose in his stride as he came to ask her to dance;

The shared laughter of Rosamond and Mr. Finch as they walked upon the Broad Quay bridge;

And, as Mr. Finch was already in her mind, she heard his voice in her ear: "It does seem as though it ought to be simple."

This last gave her a sharp twinge in her chest and her eyes flew open. The room was bathed in candlelight, though Mary looked to be dozing, her book upon her lap and her head lolling to one side on her pillow.

With a little sigh, Kitty sat up and leaned over to blow out the candle. Having done so, she pulled her knees up to her chest and tucked her arms about them like a child. Looking out the window, Kitty could see squares of light in windows and doorways up and down Henry Street, and across Manvers Street towards the river, though her view was blocked by the buildings around her; but she imagined the lights continuing across the river, and then out of Bath and into the villages beyond, little pinpricks of light growing fainter and further between, on and on into the east, until at last they began to grow closer again, and brighter, and larger; and suddenly she was looking right into London, watching the ladies and gentlemen in their finery as they strolled from houses to ballrooms to concerts and even to the Palace for a private party, grand carriages clattering noisily against the cobblestones, music pouring out of every open door, laughter ringing out too loud and false and everyone talking at once.

She opened her eyes again and found that she had fallen back against her pillow. Sliding the rest of the way down and tucking her blankets around herself, Kitty gave herself a little shake.

"Well," she muttered, in delayed response to the absent Mr. Finch, "I am afraid you do not know what you are saying, sir; and perhaps this is due to your never having been engaged before, and not knowing at all what it is like."

But this was not comforting.

She dreamed that night of a crowded ballroom, which the self within her dream told her was Almack's; but to her mind, it looked almost exactly like the Assembly Rooms.


	16. Chapter 16

The morning of the ball dawned bright and sunny, but cold. Immediately upon waking, Mrs. Bennet was thrown into her usual pre-ball frenzy of activity; and when the lady of the house was in such a state, it was quite guaranteed that nobody else was to have any peace.

"Up, up, girls!" the fond mother crowed, coming into her daughters' bedroom. "You must breakfast quickly, and then we shall have a look at what you each may wear tonight; for it is a very singular night, you know, and I would have you both looking your best!"

"In what way is tonight singular?" Mary grumbled, sitting up and yawning; she was of course morally opposed to slothfulness, but she _had_ been sleeping very soundly, and nobody likes to have their rest disturbed.

"Why, my dear, tonight we shall dance at the Upper Rooms, and there will be a _great_ many people to see!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, giving Kitty a broad wink which made her squirm, but went undetected by Mary, who was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"We have danced at the Upper Rooms before," Mary muttered. Mrs. Bennet only clucked her tongue and urged both of the girls out of bed.

The day, after they had breakfasted, was much taken up with choosing _ensembles_, and bathing, and arranging hair, and applying lotions and perfumes, and choosing new _ensembles_, and rearranging hair, and all of the other beautifying efforts to which ladies, young and old, handsome and plain, rich and poor, lend their time in varying states of enthusiasm. The only change in the usual routine was that Mrs. Bennet alone seemed at all concerned with the coming event; Kitty, her usual co-conspirator in such matters, only looked pale and perplexed, and sighed a great deal. Eventually her listlessness was enough to irritate her mother, who snapped,

"It is well you have a fine gown to wear this evening, my dear, or I am sure Mr. Price would have second thoughts about you! I do hope you shall not be so dull upon the dance-floor!"

"I am very nervous about seeing him," Kitty blurted out, all in a rush, without really meaning to. She had been keeping everything in for so long now, that she could not help letting a little bit of her anxiety escape. Mrs. Bennet softened, and looked at her tenderly.

"There now, my dear, _that_ is nothing unusual; I remember very well the feeling."

"Do you?" Kitty asked, a tiny spark of hope lighting in her chest. Mrs. Bennet pinned a curl to the top of her daughter's head.

"Of course, for it is very different, you know, to be an engaged couple. You have not seen Mr. Price for—is it three days now, or four? You will not be quite certain how to act. I could not look in your father's eyes until our _second_ meeting after he proposed, for I kept blushing horribly, and dropping things, and I am sure he thought me very silly."

"Was it your nerves?"

"Oh—perhaps—but more generally I think it was because everything had changed between us, and it is very difficult to keep one's composure under such circumstances. But once you have seen your Mr. Price, and talked with him, it will all be better."

She gave an encouraging smile, and pinned another curl into place. Kitty, biting her lip, longed to ask her mother if she had ever had any doubts, or a desire to break off the engagement, or simply wished to run away from everything. But she could not seem to find her voice, and at that moment Mary came in, looking very ill-tempered in Kitty's yellow silk, which Mrs. Bennet had selected for her.

"I cannot wear this," she announced. "It does not suit me at all. I will wear one of my own gowns."

"You will _not_," Mrs. Bennet declared, "for all of yours are far too plain, and make you look like a country-lass; and as the last time Robert saw you was with your hair in disarray and your hem full of muck, we must be sure to make a favorable impression _this_ time, or he may well never propose."

"One might argue that, given my appearance at our last meeting, anything is likely to be an improvement," Mary reasoned, which made Kitty smile a little in spite of herself. But Mrs. Bennet was not convinced; and a fierce, if brief, battle broke out, which ended with Mary storming away to put on Kitty's white muslin and Mrs. Bennet returning, triumphantly, to the arrangement of Kitty's curls.

Eventually everybody was dressed, and there was only a little bit of panic over finding matching gloves and cloaks that did not need mending (for the Bennets had not packed very much in the way of autumn-clothes; this cold was really very unwelcome); and then the carriage was late, which made Mrs. Bennet very disagreeable, though Mary and Kitty did not mind it, and Kitty—without being quiet aware of what she was doing—even indulged herself in a fantasy that the carriage had broken a wheel, or the horse had run away, and thus they would not be able to go at all (as though such minor difficulties would keep Mrs. Bennet from taking her daughters to the Upper Rooms!). But this was not the case, and at length, the ladies found themselves in the warm carriage, watching Bath go by outside the windows. Kitty leaned her ahead against a cool windowpane and shut her eyes for a moment.

It was the first time she had ever looked forward to a ball with dread, rather than exhilaration. She thought longingly of the balls in Meryton: laughing and chattering with Lydia in the carriage, and stepping down to find herself surrounded by very elegant versions of her neighbors, and hearing the strains of music as she stood out in the road, and feeling her heart pound excitedly in her chest as she made her way through the warm noisy throng. How long ago it all seemed! She wondered if she would ever again go to a ball with all of her sisters. Probably not, all things being equal; not with Lydia in Newcastle, and Elizabeth at Pemberley, and Jane at Netherfield, and Mary likely at Longbourn, and Kitty herself—she swallowed hard—somewhere in London.

There was no more time for thought, however, as their carriage rolled to a rather abrupt halt. The roadway was blocked by other stopped carriages, some of which were very fine indeed, and by the crowd of people milling amiably toward the doors of the Upper Rooms. Kitty's heart lurched in her chest. The driver, leaning back apologetically, informed them that he could go no further, and they would have to disembark where they were.

"Well, come, girls," Mrs. Bennet said, bright-eyed. "Have you your gloves and things? Put your cloak on, Mary; why ever did you take it off? The ride was not _so_ long—watch the door as you open it, my love, lest there be someone walking behind. Come along, girls!"

They climbed down into the road, lifting their hems above the muddy puddles, and picked their way daintily toward the doors. The two sisters followed their mother as well as they could through the swelling, chattering crowd. Mary kept glancing at Kitty, still concerned by her sister's dismal spirits, but she could not suppress a wholly alien thrill of pleasure at the thought of seeing Robert (even if it did have to be in a ballroom). Kitty herself, trailing behind Mary, felt as though she were growing heavier with every footstep. Her gown—a blue silk which she had formerly counted among her favorites—felt too small, and the cloak about her shoulders only made her itchy and disagreeable.

They gained the doors without very much trouble, and squeezed their way into the bright vestibule. All of the upper windows were open, but they did not seem to be doing much good; the space, Kitty felt, was quite suffocating. The throng of people was moving gently, inevitably forward, out of the confined space and toward the unfortunately narrow passageway that led to the ballroom doors. Everyone around them was laughing and talking, their words mostly drowned out by the spirited music which poured out of the ballroom. It was very noisy, and for the first time in her life Kitty felt no connection, no kindred warmth, for all of the cheerful, laughing, animated people about her. A breeze made the candles flicker on the chandelier and caused a few headdress-feathers to dip obligingly, but Kitty was still too hot; as she turned to pull the cloak from her shoulders, she found herself quite blocked in by other bodies, and unable to move much except to take slow steps forward. Mrs. Bennet was separated from her daughters by several sturdy sets of shoulders, and could not stop to wait for them. Kitty, feeling a sudden panic rise within her, clutched desperately at Mary's arm in front of her.

"Mary!" she hissed, "Mary!"

Her sister turned as much as she was able, alarmed by Kitty's urgency.

"Mary, I don't want to go!" Kitty exclaimed, doing her best to stay quiet, but the young ladies on either side of her looked at her askance, as though this was the most absurd thing anyone could possibly say. And indeed, Kitty thought, horrified at her own words, it _was_ absurd; but she could not stop herself. Her heart was pounding as if to explode, and she was sweating. "I don't want to go in!"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Mary asked, her eyes wide and shocked.

"I don't want to go to the ball! Let us go out again and find the carriage!"

"Katherine, Mamma is waiting for us," Mary said, as slowly and comfortingly as she could; but she had never seen her sister so agitated, and could not keep a tremor of alarm from her voice. "And I am sure we will see the Harts very soon, and the Fitzwilliams and the Finches, and all of our other friends. And Mr. Price," she added, rather grudgingly, but nonetheless certain that this last would be a peerless inducement.

In fact it was nothing of the sort, but Kitty's momentary terror had already begun to fade, and she let out a hitching breath. "I know," she said, attempting to sound normal, and she would have said more, but at that moment the crowd began to move faster and they were carried into through the Octagon Room and into the ballroom. They swiftly found Mrs. Bennet, who had already spotted a promising row of chairs near the dance-floor, where they would be able to see everything important that was going on, and watch everybody's comings and goings.

"Is this not a fine night?" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed breathlessly. "I am sure there is nothing I like better than a ball at the Upper Rooms. I have seen Lady Dalyrmple already, and the Bathursts, and a great many others who I thought had left Bath already, or else would not come to a public ball. How well everybody looks! Have you seen any of our friends yet, my dears?"

"Mamma, Kitty is not feeling very well," Mary interjected urgently; but Kitty, who had recovered enough to be deeply embarrassed by her behavior in the vestibule, replied irritably,

"I am feeling much better now, Mary. It was only a momentary faintness. It was because of the heat in the vestibule."

Mary opened her mouth to reply that there had not been anything _faint_ about Kitty's panicked expression, nor her trembling voice, but Kitty went on loudly,

"And I have _not_ seen anybody yet, Mamma, but it is still rather early. Shall we go look in the Tea Room?"

Mrs. Bennet thought this an excellent plan, and they went off together, leaving Mary to save their place.

The ballroom filled rapidly, and Mary sat disconsolately by herself, watching the younger people skipping about the room under the amused gazes of their parents and elder siblings. The dancing had not yet officially begun, but the music was lively enough that several laughing couples had begun twirling and stepping in small clusters about the room, clapping to the rhythm of the song. A ball is never more welcome than in the midst of disagreeable weather, and everybody seemed glad to discard the cold gray drizzle of the past days in favor of warm candlelight, cheerful company and noisy amusement. Mary frowned. How senseless it all was!

"That is exactly the expression I expected you to wear tonight," said a voice in her ear, and Mary turned to face Robert Hart.

"I much prefer the Assembly Rooms when they are arranged for a concert, rather than a ball," she replied, but she was glad he was there.

"We are in agreement on that score, then. May I sit? My family have sent me to find seats for our party, and I am sure they could not object to these."

Mary nodded as he took the chair at her side, her worry over her sister already easing a little in the presence of his quiet good nature.

"Where is your family?" she asked.

"My father and brother have gone into the card-room, and my sisters are taking a turn about all the rooms and saying hello to their friends. The usual business of a ball, you know." He gave her a little smile and a half-shrug.

"All things in which you have no interest."

"Or, at least, in which I have less interest than I do in sitting with you. It seems an age since we last saw each other."

"In fact it has been only a few days since our last meeting," Mary replied, with a little smile.

"Only a few days since our last meeting, perhaps, but at least a week or more since we could last sit alone and talk together—that is what I meant. I have missed our conversations."

In spite of herself, Mary glowed at this small expression of preference. "Indeed, 'absence makes the heart grow fonder,'" she answered warmly. "And in this case, the deprivation has been great enough to make even a ballroom seem appealing. I confess, Robert, I have looked forward to this ball solely for the prospect of enjoying your company; of late, when we have met, it has seemed as though there are always others around to be entertained."

"Do be careful there," Robert said, giving her a sideways grin, "or you may begin to sound jealous."

She colored; but Robert had always encouraged her to frankness, and so she replied "It is no hardship to admit to _some_ jealousy, as it is of a very harmless sort. When one has found a true friend—a rarer thing than our society would have us believe—it is only natural to desire that friend's attention and confidence, and to resent, however slightly, seeing it bestowed on others. It is human nature to seek out the things which bring us pleasure, and even more so to wish to guard them and keep them for ourselves. We are, by nature, selfish creatures; but as this is a universal affliction, I do not mind admitting to it, for it is no particular shame upon _me_. And it is only in the admittance of the fault, that we can begin to correct it."

"You are loquacious tonight, Mary," he teased. "You _have_ missed me, I can tell; for you are like a full bottle that has been stopped up, and now I have pulled the cork."

Mary's blush deepened, though she did her best to look unbothered. Robert's words struck closer to the truth than he probably realized; over the past days, with her mind buzzing upon various worries, she would have greatly appreciated a simple, uninterrupted conversation with him.

"I am glad you are in the mood to talk," he went on, bumping her shoulder lightly with his in what she might once have considered a shockingly familiar gesture, but which now she found rather comforting, "as I am in the mood to listen."

"And to talk as well, I should hope," she said primly, "for however voluble I may be, I cannot be expected to make conversation for two people. Had I been content to do so, I would have stayed at home and talked to myself."

He gave a little laugh, but could not reply; for at that moment a tall, finely-clothed figure lounged over them, and exclaimed, "Miss Bennet, how good to see you!"

Mary looked up at Mr. Price. "You are very kind, sir," she said stiffly.

"May I sit for a moment?" He did so without waiting for a reply, and gave Robert a friendly nod. "Hello, young Hart. Miss Bennet, I confess I have searched all over this ballroom for your charming sister, but have not seen her anywhere. I hope you have not left her at home!"

"She would scarce be left at home, sir," Mary said, and though the words might have sounded teasing coming from any other lips, from her they merely sounded reproving. "She and my mother have gone into the Tea Room, I believe."

"Unaccountable of them, to go off and leave you here alone!" He grinned appealingly at her.

"I am not alone," Mary corrected him; "Mr. Hart has been kind enough to give me his company, which I find very agreeable, I assure you."

"I am sure you do," he replied, with a knowing gaze. "And so I will not impose upon the two of you any longer. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Bennet, and I hope to see you again later. Indeed, perhaps we may even dance together, if you would oblige me; it is a pleasure I have never enjoyed."

_One of few such pleasures, I am sure_, Mary thought grimly, but she said only "I am not particularly disposed to dance, sir."

"Not with _me_, at least," Mr. Price smiled, with another knowing glance in Robert's direction. "Others may have better fortune, I imagine. I bid you good evening, then, Miss Bennet—for the time being. Young Hart," he said, nodding at Robert again, and he was off. Mary watched him go, his tall, lean frame cutting a striking figure as he negotiated his way through the throng toward the Octagon Room. More than one young lady, and a few older ones, afforded him an appreciative glance as he passed by.

"I do not like him," she muttered to herself.

"Nor do I," Robert agreed darkly, with a venom that startled her, particularly as she had not expected him to reply at all. She turned to him him, wide-eyed, and he returned her look with a glower. "'_Young Hart'_? He has four years on me, if it is even so many!"

This answer was so unexpected, and Robert's expression so fierce, that Mary was wholly unable to curb a sudden fit of laughter—though she did her best, by hastily pressing her hands to her mouth, quite shocked at herself. Unlike her sisters, Mary Bennet was not particularly given to laughter. Robert's features gradually softened into a somewhat sheepish grin.

"You cannot understand, Mary," he said, "what it is to be the youngest of three men in a line. I cannot really be 'Mr. Hart,' for that is my brother; and should I think to seek professional refuge as '_Dr._ Hart,' well, it is fruitless, for that name has been claimed as well."

"I understand very well," Mary answered, smiling, "for my elevation to the name of 'Miss Bennet' is a relatively recent development."

"Yes," Robert said, with the air of one exerting great patience, "but until then, you were Miss Mary, which is entirely inoffensive. I daresay nobody has ever attempted to address you as 'young Bennet.'"

Mary was helpless to suppress a grin, for he pronounced the phrase with immense disgust.

"'Middle Bennet' may have been somewhat more accurate," she offered.

"That is even worse," he said solemnly. "It is good that you are a woman. Imagine if I had a younger brother—what would anybody call _him_? 'Very young Hart'? 'Nascent Hart'?"

Here Mary began laughing again; and though she had come to the Upper Rooms hoping for a serious, intelligent conversation with Robert Hart, she found, to her surprise and satisfaction, that she did not mind very much when the conversation was not particularly serious or intelligent at all.

* * *

Mr. Price, of course, found Kitty without further delay. She encountered him as she was crossing the Octagon Room, having investigated the Tea Room but, unlike her mother, having elected not to sample any of the cakes or pastries, for Kitty really did not have much appetite. The panic that had seized her earlier had subsided, but she still found herself feeling tense and disagreeable, and rather lost in a way that worried her. Her mother's constant chatter in her ear, as they searched the crowd for anybody they might recognize, had only served to heighten Kitty's anxiety—for at any moment she expected Mrs. Bennet to declare "And look, my love, here is your dear Mr. Price! How delighted you must be to see him!" And she did not know what she would do _then_.

In fact, Mrs. Bennet was looking in entirely the opposite direction when Mr. Price did appear, and Kitty was looking down at the ground, wondering how long they might stay; and so hearing his warm greeting was quite a surprise to them both. Yet Mrs. Bennet's response was not so different from what her daughter had expected. "Why, Mr. Price!" she cried, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, curtsying very low. "How extremely glad we are to see you! How well you look! I hope you do not mind, sir," this leaning in a little closer, "that Kitty has told me what has passed between you—and I wish only to say, provided of course that Mr. Bennet gives his blessing (which he will do, of course; he could not do otherwise!), that I could not be happier; I could not be more pleased; it is everything I could have wished for my darling child! How envious her sisters will be!"

Mr. Price smiled obligingly, and bowed, and said many very pretty things in return; though Kitty noticed (or perhaps imagined) that he glanced around the room carefully before doing so, and did not look _entirely_ pleased with Mrs. Bennet's effusiveness.

"And I understand, of course, your discretion; Kitty has explained everything to me, and I think it very wise of you. I cannot abide gossip! I am sure, when I was engaged to be married, that there was nothing more annoying than hearing everybody talk about it. It was all quite odious to me. And so I think it right of you not to give anybody the opportunity—and I am sure Mr. Bennet will agree! Why are you so quiet, Kitty? It is _you_ Mr. Price wishes to hear, and not me!" She laughed merrily.

The primary reason for Kitty's silence was because she could not think of a single thing to say.

Every thought, every feeling, every impulse, seemed to have fled her mind completely. It was as though she were seeing only sections of a painting, which did not fit together as they ought: the blue of his eyes, the dark of his hair, the white of his smile, the black of his waistcoat. Was he handsome? She could not tell anymore, though she certainly thought he must be. She smiled, and curtsied, but only because she knew it was expected of her; anything beyond that seemed impossible. She was not even certain, anymore, how she felt. There was no dread or distaste in her, but no longing or tenderness either. A slow thick fog was creeping over her mind, obscuring all of the conflicting thoughts which had tormented her for the past several days. She could not feel anything. She looked at Mr. Price—Alexander—quite blankly, and did not know what to do.

"In fact, Miss Katherine," he said, affording her a captivating smile, "I had sought you out with a question."

"Well," Mrs. Bennet giggled, her joy having gone to her head, "we already know that Kitty's answer can only be yes!"

He smiled at her, and turned back to Kitty. "The dancing is about to begin," he went on, "and I hoped I might have your hand for the first dance."

Kitty stared at him.

"Kitty!" Her mother nudged her gently.

"Oh," Kitty said, realizing that a response was expected of her. "Yes, of course. I would be delighted," she added, with something faintly resembling honest enthusiasm.

Mr. Price seemed satisfied, for, after another careful glance about the room, he took her hand and kissed it gently. Mrs. Bennet gave a gasp of delight.

"Let us go, then, my dear," he said in a low voice, offering her an arm. Kitty took it unconsciously, and he bowed again to Mrs. Bennet, before leading them back into the warm ballroom.

The dance was indeed ready to begin. Couples were lining up along the center of the room, and those seated around the edges had fallen into a sort of expectant hush, turning from their conversations to watch the dancers. The musicians, in their alcove above the floor, had paused to rifle officiously through their sheets of music, with the air of professional showmen building suspense for the main event. Kitty, letting Mr. Price lead her to a place near the center, looked up and down the rows of dancers; there was Rosamond, who caught her gaze with a smile, standing up with Lord Adlam—where was Oliver Finch? Kitty thought, with a flash of annoyance—but then _there_ he was, farther down the line, standing up with little Juliet, who was blushing fetchingly at him. The Fitzwilliams stood nearby, chatting pleasantly with their neighbors. There was a long pause, like an inhaled breath, and then the music began. Kitty's feet moved instinctively.

"I feel I am the most fortunate man in the room," Alexander said quietly, giving her a private smile.

"Do you?" Kitty asked distantly, wondering, for the thousandth time, what was wrong with her.

"I do indeed; for not only have I the loveliest partner, but I have the knowledge that this partner is to be mine for more than a single dance—unless, my dear, you have changed your mind."

"No, to be sure," Kitty replied, turning with the steps of the dance to face the outer edge of the room. She saw her mother and the Harts; Robert and Mary were seated together, enjoying some private joke. Since when, she thought, rather disgruntledly, did Mary smile so widely—or Robert, for that matter?

"I am glad to hear it," Alexander answered, swinging close to her again. "I was very sorry that I could not dine with you on Tuesday night. I confess I feared that our long separation might cause you to have second thoughts."

"Why should I have second thoughts?" Kitty asked distractedly.

"You should not," he said, grinning, and they spun away from each other again for a moment, before turning back. "That is what I mean. It would be cruel of you, having promised me your love, to take it away again; I am not sure I could survive such a blow."

Kitty did not reply to this. She was watching Rosamond and Lord Adlam, who moved easily together. Rose was laughing, and her partner looked exceedingly gratified at having made her do so. The sight made Kitty rather sad—but only, she told herself, because it ought to be Mr. Finch in the gentleman's place.

"But I feel certain that I should not have to," Alexander continued, "for you are too kind to do such a thing. Indeed, it is your kindness, the goodness and simplicity of your nature, which first drew me to you. You are the finest woman here, Kitty, though I know you are far too modest to think so."

They swung away from each other again, then back. "Have I told you how enchanting you are tonight?" he went on. "I would say that I have never seen you in such excellent looks—but I should only have to contradict myself upon our next meeting, for each time I see you, I think you more beautiful than before. That gown suits you exceedingly well. Indeed I think it is exceedingly unfair of you to continue to outshine Bath's beauties with your own simpler, more elegant charms."

Kitty, still feeling numb, wished that Alexander would be quiet for a moment. How had she ever found this constant prattle so appealing? Juliet Hart was talking, a little shyly, with Mr. Finch, who smiled very kindly as he replied, and it occurred to Kitty that this was likely the first time the younger girl had ever danced the first dance at a ball. How thoughtful he was, to ask her!

"Can you imagine dancing this way in London, Kitty?" Alexander was saying. "Only it will be under the chandeliers at the very finest houses in London, and Almack's, and even the Palace, on occasion. And we will dine out at every night, and meet new friends and acquaintances, and be the toast of Society."

"It sounds rather expensive," Kitty heard herself saying. Alexander laughed.

"Perhaps, my dear, but no expense may be spared; my beloved wishes to live, truly _live_, in London, and so we shall. At any rate, I have no fear on that account. My investments will allow us quite a comfortable living, and perhaps someday we may even have a house in the country—though we will never go there, of course," he added teasingly. "I know you could not abide to stay in the country when we have a house in Town."

Kitty made a vague sound of agreement as they spun away from each other again. She caught sight of Anne Hart seated in a chair near Robert and Mary; Theo was bent over her, proffering a cup of something and looking exceedingly solicitous, and she was regarding him with fond exasperation. Kitty felt a little ache in her chest. Her own present exasperation with Mr. Price could hardly be described as 'fond.'

"I have some hope," Alexander went on, "that the affairs which I had hoped to conclude will be taken care of by next week, and that my arrangements will be made much sooner than I had thought."

"Arrangements?" Kitty said blankly.

"Yes, my love—for the wedding," he said, lowering his voice, though nobody else could have heard them over the music and the general din. "My previous estimate was far more generous than it ought to have been. We could be married by November, if you should like; and then we can spend Christmas at Pemberley, and I could meet all your family as your husband."

_November_. She could be married by November. Kitty was aware of something struggling through her entombing numbness, some thought that could not quite make itself heard, and suddenly the ballroom felt very hot indeed. She shook her head and tried to focus. What was he saying?

"Do you not plan to meet my family as my betrothed?" she asked meekly.

"That would be a great pleasure, my beauty," he replied swiftly, "but I do not think it entirely feasible, with your sisters and their families spread so widely about the country. I had thought that Christmas would be the first time you were all together."

Yes, Kitty thought, that was probably true, if she was going to be married by November. What day was it now? October something, she thought. Less than a month, then.

"Anyway," he continued, "your mother has given us her blessing, has she not? And that, I think, is the most valuable thing—a mother's blessing. Though of course I shall write to your father as well."

The music swelled to a last, long note, and faded. The dancers came to a halt, clapping and laughing and talking happily. Gentlemen began escorting their fair partners back to their chairs as more couples stood and made their way toward the floor for the next dance. Kitty took Alexander's arm when he offered it, her mind still humming indistinctly. She felt rather discontented, an emotion which would have been unthinkable, a month ago, upon finishing a dance with the dashing Mr. Price. Nonetheless, as he returned her to her friends, and deposited her in an empty chair, she asked him if he might sit with her awhile.

"I do not think that is particularly wise," he answered in a low voice. "It would not do for us to show each other any particular attention, after all."

Kitty frowned, but he only bowed and smiled, and promised to call upon her for a second dance, and hurried away. She watched him go, her brow still furrowed.

"Miss Katherine."

Kitty turned. Oliver Finch was standing beside her, something unreadable in his eyes.

"May I sit here?" he asked.

"Well," Kitty sighed, "someone might as well," and, to her surprise, he gave a very small smile as he sat down.

For several moments, it seemed as though he had sat there purely by chance, for he said nothing further. Kitty's attention drifted. Several of the gentlemen in their party had wandered away, to the card-room, she imagined, though Theodore Hart remained at his wife's side and Robert was leaning across Mary to say something to Rosamond. Mrs. Fitzwilliam and a few of her cousins had risen to take a turn about the room, and Mrs. Bennet was chatting eagerly to Dr. Hart, as Juliet quietly took a sip from her father's wine-glass. It was a happy scene, and Kitty had never felt less a part of it.

"Miss Katherine," Mr. Finch said abruptly, "I wonder if I might speak to you."

Kitty, startled by the sudden address, turned to him.

"I—well—I have been thinking, Miss Katherine," he began, haltingly, "and I have a mind to discuss with you a matter which has troubled me for some time. I had not thought it my place to speak to you before, but now I think I ought."

Kitty bit her lip. "I am sorry to hear you have been troubled, sir," she said, "but I confess, I would rather not speak of serious things tonight."

His eyes widened, and he looked embarrassed. "Of course you would not," he said, glancing down at his hands. "A ballroom is not the appropriate place for such a discussion. I am sorry, Miss Katherine; I did not mean to—"

"No," Kitty said, with a little laugh, "it is not _that_; one can speak of anything in a ballroom; I have had plenty of serious discussions, and arguments, and that sort of thing, in between dances. No, Mr. Finch, it is only that I am—in a rather strange humor just now," she finished, softly. "I am not entirely sure what I am thinking, but I do not think I am entirely equal to a conversation of consequence."

He regarded her with some concern. "Are you well?"

"Oh, yes, I think so," Kitty replied, turning back to watch the dancers. "I am only trying to—well, trying to work something out, I suppose, though I am sure _I_ don't know what it is."

They sat in silence for another moment. Oliver Finch appeared to be considering her words; or, she thought, perhaps he merely did not have anything more to say. One could never be certain with Mr. Finch. At length, however, he said quietly,

"I hope your humor is not so strange that you will refuse me a dance."

She glanced at him, and he flushed. The sight made her smile, genuinely, for the first time that night.

"Of course I will dance with you," she answered warmly.

"Thank you, Miss Katherine."

"And I think you ought to know," she went on, emboldened, "that I thought it exceedingly sweet of you to dance the first dance with little Juliet, when I am sure there is at least _one_ other lady with whom you would rather have spent your time. I am sure it was the thrill of her life."

His blush deepened. "Miss Juliet is a very amiable young lady," he said, "and an excellent dancing-partner. And she did seem to enjoy herself," he added reflectively.

"Yes," Kitty agreed readily, "and do you not think she bears _such_ a pleasing resemblance to her sister?"

Oliver Finch had nothing to say to this. Kitty caught Mary giving her a rather troubled look across the sea of chairs, and sent her sister a very cheerful smile in return. It would not do to make Mary worry any more than she already had; her sister had such a regrettable tendency to _fret_, and really she deserved to enjoy herself.

"Miss Katherine," Mr. Finch said, after another long moment, and then he hesitated. "Miss Katherine, since you do not wish to talk tonight, would it be—would it be at all possible for me to call at Henry Street tomorrow? I should not like to cause any inconvenience," he added carefully.

"It is no inconvenience," Kitty answered. "Perhaps the weather will be fine, and we may walk out together."

"I would like that," he replied, smiling at her.

They sat in companionable silence, watching the dancers, until a cheerful argument broke out between Theo Hart and Bertram Finch, both of whom immediately appealed to Oliver for support. That gentleman, with one last glance at Kitty, went to Theodore's aid, raising a howl of protest from his elder brother. Kitty, left by herself for the moment, sank into her chair and felt the fog returning.

* * *

The ball had only just begun, and so the atmosphere was yet sparkling with eager expectation; everyone was still happy to be there, and would not have chosen to be anywhere else. Nobody was content to sit still, and large parties or single people were forever standing to take turns about the ballroom, or to go into one of the other rooms, or to hurry across the floor and visit a friend seated on the other side, or simply to stand around the dance-floor and watch. The Upper Rooms heaved with activity, as footsteps ran up and down the stairs and along the passageways, and voices were heard in every corner.

Mary would much rather have stayed in her chair, for so much activity, and so many bodies, made her uncomfortable; having grown up in the wide fields and empty spaces of the countryside, she always considered it a little unnatural to be packed into a room with hundreds of other people. Even the public balls in Meryton had offended her in this respect. But Robert, seated beside her, was persuasive, and at length she was induced to take a turn about the room with him, and perhaps afterwards venture to the Tea Room.

"Besides," Robert said in a low voice, as they walked away together, "and I truly say this in a tone of the utmost respect—but if I receive any more highly significant glances from your mother, I may lose my head and accidentally propose to you."

"That would not do," Mary replied, trying to sound severe, but smiling in spite of herself. "A proposal of marriage is an event that must be precipitated by a great deal of thought and consideration, and should not be made merely out of a wish to avoid criticism."

"'You have been reading the wrong books. A proposal of marriage is precipitated by sleepless nights, and lonesome tears, and so on, and is only ever made in order to cure a broken heart. All of the novels are very specific."

"I will grant you greater experience in the study of such works," Mary answered, "but I will venture that perhaps those unfortunate ills are merely symptoms of, as _I_ said, serious thought and consideration; we can both be correct, you see. When you begin weeping, and losing sleep, then we may talk further about the circumstances of your own experience, and so draw a more definite conclusion."

He gave her a crooked little smile, and offered his arm.

They did not talk very much as they made a round of the ballroom, for they were frequently interrupted. Though Robert had not the expansive friendliness of his brother, nor the easy sociability of his sisters, he was nonetheless possessed of a good nature and a pleasant temperament, and a great many people were happy to see him. They were equally pleased to be introduced to Miss Bennet; and though Mary was, as a rule, only ever stiff and awkward in new company, there was something reassuring about Robert's solid presence beside her, and she found herself, if not necessarily amiable, at least speaking with less prickliness than she might ordinarily have done.

"You have many friends in Bath," she remarked, as they walked away from one large party, who had greeted Robert with particular fondness.

"I should hope so, for I have lived here my whole life."

"That is no guarantee of friendship," Mary answered, rather consciously, "I have lived in Meryton my whole life, and could not count more than one or two people there among my friends, if pressed."

Robert glanced at her. "Perhaps your definition of the word is too stringent," he offered, after a moment.

Mary considered this. "I do not think so," she said at last. "I should not like to count as _friends_ merely those for whom I do not feel any particular dislike; that is speaking too broadly. Nor should I like to count those for whom my feelings are generally favorable, but not greatly so, for that is removing from the word all its connotations of intimacy and fondness."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Of course," she answered, surprised. "Were I to count every such person among my friends, then my feelings for _you_ would lose their significance."

She did not mean it to sound quite the way it did.

He smiled a little. "I do not think it is your feelings that would lose significance," he replied, "but the word itself; and there is no harm in that, for words are fluid, and can be used as we please. I should not consider myself particularly intimate with many of these people," he waved a hand about the ballroom, "but I like them, most of the time, and enjoy their company. What does that make them, if not my friends?"

They emerged into the Octagon Room. Two young ladies were leaning against one wall, talking very seriously together, as ladies and gentlemen ducked into and out of the doorways that led to the other rooms.

"Well," Mary said, "if I am to broaden my definition of the word, then, for the sake of tidiness, I should at least like to have some distinction between those I _generally like_, and those of whom I am _particularly fond_. What shall you and I call each other, if not friends?"

"Particular friends," Robert suggested.

Mary wrinkled her nose. "No, for that is what Kitty calls Rosamond and Maria Lucas; and you are not a young lady."

"Then I am at a loss. Perhaps you might think of something better."

They passed into the Tea Room, which was crowded and buzzed with the general hum of conversation, broken every so often by a burst of laughter from one of the tables. It was still quieter than the ballroom, however, and Mary sank happily into the chair Robert found for her.

"Should you like some wine?" he asked, "Or something to eat?"

She thanked him, and he went to procure some refreshment.

Mary sat peacefully by herself for a moment. She was enjoying the ball more than she had thought possible (though it was still only very early), particularly now that Kitty, judging by what Mary had seen of her conversation with Mr. Finch, appeared to be feeling more herself. And anyway, Mary reflected, whatever inner turmoil her sister was experiencing, she of all be people would be hard-pressed _not_ to enjoy herself at such an event, surrounded by friends whose sole desire, at the moment, was the amusement of themselves and everybody else. Rosamond was nearby, and her presence would surely lift Kitty's spirits; and even though Mary disapproved of Mr. Price on an ethical level, she could not help admitting that he did have a talent for making her sister happy. Of course it was a very shallow happiness—not at all lasting, whatever Kitty seemed to think. But at least it was sure to pull Kitty from her strange, agitated humor.

These satisfactory reflections occupied her until Robert returned, bearing two cups of wine and a small plate of sweet rolls, the latter balanced precariously on his arm.

"They are serving ices as well," he reported, "even though it is so cold outside; but I did not fetch you one, for I did not have enough hands."

They sat comfortably together, enjoying their small repast. The wine was good, and the sweet rolls still a little warm; Mary watched Robert bite into one with a certain vigor, and the sight made her feel rather fond. They did not speak, but enjoyed an easy silence as they ate and drank. At length, however, Mary—whose thoughts had been wandering calmly, without any real object—asked,

"Robert, did you mean what you told Katherine about moving away from Bath?"

"I did. Why do you ask?"

"Oh," Mary said, not particularly certain herself, "there is no particular reason. I only wondered where you thought you might go."

Robert took a large sip of his wine. "I have not made up my mind. I have at least another year of work and study here, you know, before I may strike out on my own."

"Do you think you will settle near Bath, or go somewhere new?"

He paused thoughtfully. "I am not sure," he replied at last. "There are villages here in Somerset that could use a physician, and my family would have me stay nearby. We have been rather spoiled, for the various marriages that have taken place have not changed our family circle overmuch, which is not always the case. Even Helena and her husband talk of returning here; I think Helena would like little Isabelle to grow up among her aunts and uncles. There are some families who seem to scatter altogether once the children are grown."

"My own is such a family," Mary said. "Jane, at least, has stayed close to home; but Elizabeth is three counties away, and Lydia is all the way in Newcastle."

"And do you miss them?"

Mary considered. "I do not particularly miss Lydia," she answered, "as cruel as it sounds; I am afraid that we were never very fond of each other, and did not treat each other as we ought. I should like to see Elizabeth more often, but she at least is a faithful correspondent, and the road to Pemberley is not _so_ difficult. Do you think you shall miss your family, if you go away from them?"

"Yes," he said immediately.

"I suppose you are all very close."

"It is not that, though I suppose we are. It is only that they are so familiar to me. Rose, in particular—we have spent our whole lives together, and though _that_ was often involuntary (for, when you are twins, everybody seems to assume that you prefer to be treated as a single unit), we are nonetheless each very accustomed to having the other nearby. I think it would feel quite strange for me to be far away from her, even more than the others."

Mary reflected upon this for a moment. "And yet," she said, "you are determined to go, and cast away everything which is familiar to you, for the sake of making yourself useful in an alien environment, divorced from the comforts of home and family. That, I think, is very admirable."

"I think you are overstating the case," Robert said wryly. "It is not so different from what anybody else does, when they grow up—leave home and family behind, in search of their own fate. Your sisters have done so, and you will likely do so as well."

"Perhaps," she said, with a shrug. "But others tend to do so for selfish reasons: because they fall in love, or find a better living. _Your_ reasons are remarkably altruistic."

"Or," he countered, "perhaps they are only selfish in a different way."

"Well," Mary said, taking a drink, "even if so, you will still be doing something good, and that, I think is what matters. One cannot read too critically into _intentions_; we have often heard that 'the ends justify the means,' and though such a statement is rather narrow-minded, there is nevertheless some truth to it. If a man gives money to a beggar only to _seem_ charitable, he has nonetheless committed a good deed."

"You comfort me, Mary," Robert replied, with a little smile. "It is good to know that, whatever I do and whyever I do it, I shall have your approval."

Mary smiled at him, and they finished the rest of the sweet rolls together.

* * *

Kitty's second dance with Alexander, which took place about an hour later, was very similar to the first; that is, he spoke, very fluently, upon all her charms, and she listened dully. He did not seem particularly concerned by her inattention, if he even noticed it. Words came easily to him, and he did not always necessitate a reply, which was fortunate, as Kitty had none to give him, other than a few murmurs of agreement and smiles in appropriate places.

Upon the conclusion of the dance, they walked once about the room, before he again made his excuses and took his leave. She did not mind, this time, as he walked away, for in truth his company had begun to fatigue her. Mrs. Bennet, seeing her so deserted, swept over and took the chair at her daughter's side.

"How happy you must be!" she whispered, taking care that their friends should not hear them. "Think only, my dear, how it will be to be married to him! Then you may dance with him always, and sit with him besides, and be the envy of the whole room!"

"He thinks we may be married before November," Kitty said listlessly. Her mother gasped with delight.

"That is sooner even than we had hoped, my love! Are you not delighted? Is this not joyous news?"

Kitty gave an ill-bred little shrug, and leaned back into her chair. Her head still felt full of fog, though her heart had begun pounding again. Mrs. Bennet eyed her critically.

"Are you unwell, my girl?" she asked.

"I don't know," was the faint reply.

"Perhaps it is best if you sit for awhile," her mother decided. "Shall I call for Dr. Hart? He has gone into the card-room, but I am sure he would not mind if I called for him."

"No, Mamma," Kitty answered, rather annoyed, "for Dr. Hart spends all his days looking at ill people, and I am sure it is the last thing he wishes to do at a ball." Besides which, she did not say, she was grown fairly certain that her complaint was not one of physical illness, but of mental. She wondered if perhaps she were going mad.

"Well," said Mrs. Bennet, unsatisfied, "if you are certain, child. But sit there for awhile, and rest, and do not dance anymore until you are feeling better. Though I _know_," she added with a wink, "that you have already danced twice with the partner of your choice, and so may not wish to dance anymore at all."

"I have promised Mr. Finch a dance," Kitty said absentmindedly.

"Have you, my dear? That was kind of you."

Kitty did not say anything more, and Mrs. Bennet, at length growing tired of her daughter's silence, got up and went to sit by Mrs. Carpenter, on the other side of the room. Kitty was left alone again, for several of her friends were dancing, and the others had disappeared on various errands of amusement. She wondered where Mary had gotten to. But she did not mind the solitude; it gave her some time to breathe.

She did not know how long she sat there, gazing idly about the room. The musicians were presently playing a fast, noisy reel, which was embarked upon with much cheering and laughter; Rosamond, pink-cheeked with exertion, was dancing with the eldest Mr. Finch, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was twirling his wife expertly. Several of the couples were missing steps, resulting in much hilarity, as the musicians played faster and faster. It reminded Kitty very much of the public assemblies in Meryton, and she could not entirely suppress a smile.

At length, however, she became aware that she was rather thirsty, and went in search of refreshment. Edging her way through ballroom, doing her best not to tread upon anybody's shoe or hemline, she gave a little sigh of relief as she at last gained the Octagon Room, which was quieter and cooler. There, however, she stopped quite suddenly, and all thoughts of refreshment fled her mind.

The room was mostly deserted, except for a young couple standing near the doors to the card-room and talking with their heads very close together. The lady had her back pressed against the wall, and was giggling softly; the gentleman, leaning over her, was murmuring something in her ear. Nobody else, passing through the room, paid them any attention; they had the appearance of every other young couple who were either newly married or eager to be so; except, Kitty knew, they were _not_ a couple, they could _not_ be a couple, for the gentleman was undoubtedly Alexander Price. He had his back toward her—he had not seen her. Kitty took a step backwards, then, her face hot, turned and nearly ran back into the ballroom.

The dance had just ended, and everyone was milling about, returning to their friends or hurrying toward the floor for the next song. It seemed extremely crowded, and extremely hot, and extremely noisy. Kitty brushed a strand of hair from her face; her skin was warm and she wondered if she were feverish. All of a sudden, she wanted nothing more than to run, far away, and be by herself in her own bed—at Longbourn, not Henry Street—and hear nothing but silence around her. She took a deep gasp of air, then another. She had to get out. She turned back toward the doors again—but no, she could not go _that_ way.

Almost blind to the people around her, she began fighting her way through the crowd toward the other set of doors. Her heart was pounding again, and she pushed her way past a large party, earning several very dirty looks to which she paid no attention. She could not breathe. There were too many people standing in the way—could they not see she needed to escape or she would burst?

At last, she gained the doors that opened onto the vestibule, and from there she all but raced down the little passageway toward the front doors. Her gown was clinging to her skin, slick with sweat, and the autumn air was a blessing as she burst out of the building. A few people, in cloaks and coats, were standing around the doors and talking quietly; they stared as she hurried past them, pressing her hands to her aching head and breathing in great loud gulps. She paced for a moment before the doors, careless of her gown trailing on the dirty ground; then she became aware of the stares and hastened along the building, until she found a spare bit of wall around the corner from the entryway, out of sight, and pressed her back to it, gasping for breath with her face toward the cold night sky.

She was not jealous.

That was the prevailing theme that echoed in her mind: she was not jealous. She had discovered Alexander Price—the man she was to marry—whispering sweet nothings in the ear of another girl, making her laugh and giggle and blush just as he did to Kitty herself, and she _did not care_. There was no flare of anger, no sense of betrayal or hurt—there was _nothing_, a vast blank nothingness in her mind that horrified her because, as foolish as it was, shouldn't she feel something? They were engaged, however secretly, and so should not the sight of her beloved entwined with another cause at least some hint of alarm or shock? Why was she completely unsurprised and utterly indifferent? Why was she feeling so dreadfully empty, as if everything had been drained from her in one fell swoop?

"You are upset because you are not upset," she murmured to herself, and the words made her laugh, a little hitching laugh which suddenly and unexpectedly dissolved into tears. And then it was as if the dam had broken. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, loudly and brokenly, not caring if anybody else heard her. These were not the tears of petty hurts, childish arguments or frustrated desires; these were not the trifling tears of a young lady who could not stand to be told "no." Kitty had not cried so brokenheartedly since she was a very young child.

She did not love him. She had fooled herself, or worse, been fooled. She did not love him; and he clearly did not love her, not as he stood smiling and flirting with somebody else. How could she have been so mistaken? She had thought him so perfect, she had adored him so completely, she had been so flattered by his attentions, and she had been wrong. Everything she had thought and felt and believed had been wrong. The thought left her cold.

Heedless of propriety, she slid down along the wall until she sat on the cold stones of the street, her knees up in front of her. She knew how she must look, like a naughty child hiding from its mother, but she could not bring herself to care. Her sobs, having spent themselves, gradually petered out into thick sniffs and little whimpers that caught in her chest. She tucked her arms around her knees and rested her head on them, the silk of her gown scratching her cheek. How tired she was!

"Miss Katherine?"

Kitty looked up, startled. Anne Hart was standing over her, her face a mask of worry.

"Are you not cold, Miss Katherine?"

Kitty opened her mouth to respond, but could not find her voice. She merely shook her head and turned away in hopes that Mrs. Hart would leave her alone.

Instead, to her surprise, she felt a small, warm hand upon her shoulder. She did not look up (could Mrs. Hart not see that she had no wish for company?) but the hand remained, and after a long moment she felt it begin to rub slow circles along her back. The touch was comforting. Hesitantly, she raised her head.

"I found the ballroom rather stifling," Anne Hart said gently, meeting her eyes, "and thought it might be pleasant to take some air. Would you like to walk with me?"

Kitty nodded, still uncertain of her voice, and rose unsteadily to her feet. Mrs. Hart fumbled for a moment beneath her cloak and produced a delicate cashmere shawl, which she handed to Kitty.

"Theodore insisted I bring them both, as it is so cold," she explained, at Kitty's puzzled glance. "He means well, of course." There was a wry undertone in her voice.

Kitty wrapped the shawl over her shoulders. It was much finer than anything she had ever worn, clearly quite expensive, and she wondered if this was something Mrs. Hart had owned back when she was Miss de Bourgh.

They walked together along the side of the Assembly Rooms, faint strains of music and voices reaching them even through the brick walls. Kitty could feel Anne Hart casting troubled glances at her, but said nothing. She did not know what to say, at any rate—"Mrs. Hart, I imagine you are wondering why I am sobbing against the wall instead of dancing the quadrille inside;" or "Mrs. Hart, I am sure you think I have gone entirely mad;" or "Mrs. Hart, I swear to you that no one has died, and I am only behaving this way because I quite suddenly realized how stupid I have been"?

Mrs. Hart solved the problem for her, as they reached the far corner of the building and turned back. "Miss Katherine," she began, "I am afraid I am not very good at offering comfort; I have never had much practice. But whatever is troubling you, I would be glad to help if I may."

Kitty brushed at her wet eyes and sniffed. "That is kind of you, but I am afraid you cannot help me," she said, her voice husky from crying. "Nobody can. I have—" She took a long rough breath. "I have only come to the realization that I have made a very grave mistake."

Anne nodded, casting her eyes forward. The night was fine, though cold, and the stars hung pleasantly in the dark sky. "Well," she said, "I suppose the only thing you can do, then, is endeavor to fix it."

Kitty gave a watery laugh. "That is easy enough to say."

"Yes," Anne said apologetically, "it is, isn't it? I am sorry; I suppose that was not particularly helpful. As I said, I have not much experience in this area."

"It is all right," Kitty assured her, brushing at her eyes again. "It is nice enough to walk with you."

Anne gave her a very kind smile, and they walked quietly down to the other corner of the building. They were making their way back toward the entryway when the doors open and a tall figure emerged, looking up and down the road.

"Anne?" Theodore called.

"Here, my love," his wife answered. He hurried toward them.

"You do alarm me when you disappear so, my dear," he rebuked her, though his tone was more teasing than anything. "Father and the twins did not know where you had gone, and I began to fear that you had gone back to Kent to be rid of me. Hello, Miss Katherine." He gave Kitty a bow and a brief glance.

"I have not gone back to Kent, as you see, Theo," Anne replied calmly, "but I may consider it, if you continue to disturb my peace."

"You cannot blame me for _that_, love, for you knew my temperament perfectly well when you married me. But I will go back in and let you alone, if you truly wish it. Miss Katherine," he said, glancing at Kitty again and frowning, "you look as though you have been crying."

"Theo!" Anne hissed.

"Forgive me," he said immediately. "I have interrupted something. Should you like me to go?"

Mrs. Hart looked at Kitty, and Kitty realized he was speaking to her and not his wife. "No," she said, hesitantly, "it is quite all right. I do not think I am going to cry any more."

"That is an encouraging sign," he said, falling into step between them and offering her his arm. She took it, glad of its solid warmth beneath her hand. "Though you need not restrain yourself for my sake. I am not daunted by weeping; having grown up with four siblings, three of them younger than myself, I have encountered plenty of tears over the course of my life. Most of them, of course, being Robert's. I am _teasing_, Anne," he added, sounding rather wounded, and Kitty surmised that his wife must have pinched him or otherwise expressed her disapproval. She could not suppress another shaky little laugh.

"You shall have to warn my sister about that," she said, sniffling.

"She seems quite capable of handling the matter," he agreed. "Are you warm enough, Anne? You may have my coat, if you like."

"We are ten paces from the door, my love."

"Plenty of time to catch a chill," her love muttered. Anne sighed, but she was smiling.

They reached the entryway in another moment, and Kitty was rather gratified, as she flushed under the inquisitive looks of the small group gathered there (who had watched her run outside, and must surely have heard her sobbing), to see Theodore meeting their open stares with a punishing glare that would not have been out of place on Mr. Darcy. Even Anne looked at them archly, seemingly summoning up every inch of the de Bourgh blood within her, and the onlookers returned quickly to their conversations.

Kitty was glad that the vestibule was empty, but quailed a little at the thought of returning to the ballroom, with tear tracks down her face and her gown and hair surely in disarray. It was a relief to her, then, when Anne murmured "I am still a little too warm, my dear," and Theo obligingly steered them in the direction of the Tea Room. It was quieter there, and everyone was too much engaged in their own conversations to pay them any attention. Indeed the room was mostly empty, for it was that hour of the evening when everybody likes to be dancing, or watching the dancers. A cool breeze came in through the upper windows, and Theodore deposited the two ladies at a table before hurrying away toward the food.

"He was joking, earlier," Anne said softly, watching him go with a fond look, "but really he is very good at this sort of thing. I suspect it does come from being an elder brother."

Kitty could not imagine Rosamond, or even Juliet, requiring comfort in a fit of sobbing; but she did not reply. Instead she devoted her attention to pinning her hair back into place, and brushing the bits of dirt and dust from her skirts. The tears and flushed cheeks she could not address, but they would fade, and at least now she did not look so completely undone.

"I am the envy of the room," Theodore announced gallantly, returning to their table with two cups, "and everyone I have met wishes to know the names of the charming young ladies who entered upon my arm. I have not told them, because I am jealous and spiteful. Here you are, Miss Katherine—and for you, Anne."

Kitty took the proffered cup, and sipped delicately at it: he had brought her some chocolate. She smiled her thanks at him, and took a long drink.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asked; "there are still plenty of cakes left, and a few sweet rolls and other things."

The ladies refused politely.

"Are you certain, Anne?" he pressed. "It would be no trouble at all."

"Sit _down_, Theodore," his wife said, laughing. He did so, but did not look convinced.

"Perhaps, Anne, I ought to fetch you a plate," he said.

"My love, you are fussing."

"It is more than acceptable, under the circumstances. Would you like some more water?"

"I have not finished what you brought; and anyway that is the fourth cup of water you have fetched for me this evening, and while it is very kind of you, my dear, I did not in fact ask for any of them."

"I pride myself on an ability to provide a service even before it is requested."

"Nonetheless, I would not mind very much if you waited for the request."

"That will never do, as you never ask me for anything, even though I have placed myself entirely at your beck and call. I think it rather unfair of you."

"Mrs. Hart," Kitty blurted out, watching this exchange with increasing interest, "are you expecting?"

She realized as soon as she said it that the question was exceedingly impolite, and blushed heatedly; she could only blame it on her exhaustion, though certainly a natural tendency to speak without thinking was also at fault.

Fortunately, Anne Hart did not seem offended; but she was certainly surprised, and her face was as red as Kitty's own.

"Why—I confess I am," she stammered, looking down at her lap. Kitty, for the moment distracted from her misery, clapped her hands with delight.

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed, beaming. "Does your family know?"

"They do," Theo replied, taking his wife's hand and smiling at her, "but we have not told anybody else; we wished to wait just a little longer."

"Oh—I am so sorry—I should not have said anything. And I _will_ not say anything, I promise; I am excellent at keeping secrets." She swallowed hard. "But how lovely! Dr. Hart must be overjoyed, and Juliet and the twins as well."

"They are indeed, and I am certain that our little one will be the most spoilt child in England," Theo said drily.

"Oh, yes, for that is the best thing about being an aunt or an uncle, or a grandparent. You look very well, Mrs. Hart," she said, "and very healthy."

"I wish you could convince my husband so," Anne said, giving Theo an affectionate glance.

"She cannot," Theo said cheerfully, "for it is quite impossible; it is the husband's duty to fuss and worry, and the wife's to bear his concern with fortitude. And you are doing _very_ well, my Anne. Only a few more months of continuous irritation, and you shall be quite free." He kissed the hand he held.

Kitty, watching them, had a little lump in her throat. They were so well-suited, so plainly happy, so easy together; they reminded her a little of Lizzie and Darcy, or Jane and Bingley. How, she asked herself silently, how had she ever thought her relationship with Alexander could resemble this in any way? There was no affection there, only a compelling yet shallow attraction that, once tested, evaporated. He was charming, and handsome, and full of flattery; and how could she ever have thought _that_ so important?

She could not marry him. She wanted what was before her: she wanted something simple, and honest, and rife with little frustrations that only made each partner more fond of the other. She did not want to spend the rest of her life receiving the same compliments over and over in different words, and talking endlessly about balls and parties and other people, and admiring her husband's profile but having nothing to say to him. Even if she had not seen him...as he was before...even if that had not occurred, the entire evening, from her dread of seeing him to the emptiness that enveloped her when she did, had been proof enough that there was nothing there for her. She did not want to look at her husband and feel emptiness inside. She had _known _something was not right, ever since he had proposed, and she was too tired now to blame her unhappiness upon nerves or her own foolishness. She knew what was wrong, and it was not wrong with _her_. She could not marry Alexander.

The thought made her start to sniffle, and she brushed hurriedly at her eyes. It would not do to begin crying again—not when the Harts were being so kind to her.

"Oh, hello, Oliver," Theodore said, looking over Kitty's shoulder.

Kitty blanched. She certainly did not wish to cry in front of Mr. Finch, with his large eyes and his serious gaze and his long silences; _he_ would naturally try very hard to comfort her, and it would be exceedingly awkward. She brushed at her eyes again and turned to smile at him.

"Hello, Theodore," Mr. Finch returned quietly, bowing to them, "Mrs. Hart; Miss Katherine."

"Have you come in search of refreshment? Mrs. Hart was just telling me how very much she would like someone to fetch a plate for her." This time, Kitty saw the pinch Anne gave to her husband's arm. Theo grinned.

"In fact," Oliver Finch said, blushing deeply, "I have come in search of Miss Katherine. But if Mrs. Hart would like—"

"Thank you, Mr. Finch, but it is quite unnecessary," Anne assured him.

"You have come in search of Miss Katherine," Theo repeated gravely, raising an eyebrow at Mr. Finch. "How fortunate, then, that we happened to find her for you."

"We were just returning to the ballroom," Anne said, glancing at Theo.

"Indeed. If Miss Katherine does not object," here turning to her, "I shall leave her in your capable hands."

Kitty did not object, though she rather wished the Harts would not go away so soon. But Theodore rose, and gave his hand to Anne, and Oliver Finch took his chair.

"I hope you enjoy the rest of the ball, Miss Katherine," Mrs. Hart said kindly. "Do sit here for awhile, and rest."

Mr. Hart said nothing, but gave Kitty a friendly smile that made her blush a little, as he turned away with his wife upon his arm. They were gone in another moment, talking pleasantly as they went out into the Octagon Room.

Mr. Finch was, as usual, quite silent for a moment. Kitty took another long draught of her chocolate, and nearly finished it.

"I wondered, Miss Katherine, if I might claim my dance with you," Mr. Finch said at last, very red-faced.

"Oh," Kitty said, and her heart sank a little; for she was exhausted, and still a little red-eyed, and really had no desire to dance. She looked at him. His expression was very earnest, and rather determined, and she felt horribly guilty. "I am very sorry, Mr. Finch, but I—I have had a rather difficult evening, and am afraid I am rather too tired for dancing."

"Oh," Mr. Finch echoed her, looking down at the table top.

"I really am _very_ sorry," Kitty said wretchedly. "I do not mean to disappoint you, and I know it is exceedingly rude of me to refuse you now, but—"

"It is quite all right," he said, looking up at her and attempting a smile. "Do not concern yourself. I will go; I am sorry to have disturbed you."

"Oh—wait!" she exclaimed, as he stood to leave. "I would not mind—that is—if you have no other engagement, I would be very glad of your company."

He stood awkwardly for a moment, and then sat down again. Kitty smiled at him. The poor gentleman, she thought; why is he wasting his time with me, when he ought to be dancing with Rosamond?

But she did not say this aloud.

"I am sorry," Mr. Finch ventured, after a long pause, "that you have not enjoyed yourself tonight."

"You are very kind, sir. Anyway," Kitty went on, doing her best to sound cheerful, "it has not _all_ been bad; I enjoyed talking with you earlier, and am enjoying talking with you now."

Oliver Finch smiled faintly. "I have hardly said anything," he said quietly.

"Yes," Kitty said, "and I find it very refreshing. There are too many people in this world who are given to talk, and I may say so with authority, for I am one of them. Have I not told you, before, how much I appreciate your talent for listening? There must be balance in the world, you know, and I like talking to you, for you allow me to do almost all of the talking."

"I am afraid such a conversation must be unsatisfying for you."

"Not at all," she maintained, "for as I told you, I am given to talk. At any rate it is good to have some quiet. Did you not think this ball particularly noisy, as balls go?"

"Perhaps a little," he admitted. "But I find most such assemblies rather noisy for my liking."

"Yes, I suppose you do, for you are accustomed to the silence of a church. Usually I do not mind a little noise, but tonight it gave me a head-ache. I was not in the humor to come to a ball tonight," she sighed. "I ought to have stayed at home."

In fact, the truth of the thought struck her as she pronounced it, and she felt a stab of bitter disappointment that she had not done precisely that.

"I am sure your friends would have missed seeing you."

Kitty waved a dismissive hand. "I have hardly seen any of them. They have all been dancing and enjoying themselves, and I have been—" She hesitated. "I have been thinking, I suppose."

"Yes; you said so before. Have you come to any conclusions?"

She looked at him with surprise. His large eyes were fixed upon her seriously.

"Yes," she said decisively. "It is now only a matter of putting it into practice."

"That must be a relief for you."

"Certainly not," she replied. "The _thinking_ is always the easiest part; it is always the _doing_ that is difficult. Do you not find it to be so?"

"That depends upon the circumstances."

Kitty was unwilling to expand upon the subject, and so dropped it. "Have _you_ enjoyed yourself tonight, Mr. Finch?"

"I have," he said, after a brief pause.

"Have you danced very much?"

"Yes: once with Miss Juliet, as you saw, and twice with Miss Rosamond."

_Twice_ with Rosamond, Kitty thought triumphantly, but she said only, "And you would have danced once with Miss Katherine, if she had better manners."

"In fact," Mr. Finch admitted, smiling a little, "I am rather relieved not to be dancing. It is not my favorite activity; I always feel that I do not do it very well."

"I think you are a fine dancer," she assured him. "It is very difficult to be _bad_ at dancing; all one must do is watch everybody else, and follow them, and make sure to go in the proper direction.—That is the part which my cousin Mr. Collins always forgets, and it always causes a great disturbance upon the dance-floor, which makes me laugh."

"Are you close with your cousin?" he asked. "You have mentioned him before."

"With Mr. Collins? Lord, no! I had never met him in my life until three years ago, and then I thought him quite ridiculous. Anyway he lives far away, in Kent, and I have never dared to write to him, for fear I should receive a hundred pages of sermons in return. Begging your pardon, of course," she added consciously. "Though I am sure any sermon _you_ might give would be far more interesting than _his_. Besides, I trust that you reserve the sermons for church-days, and use letters for their proper purpose."

"And what is their proper purpose?"

"Well, news, of course. Nobody opens a letter in hopes of finding a lecture inside; one cares only for the interesting things that are happening somewhere else. And of course letters are useful for saying things which one might be too embarrassed to say in person, such as an apology, or a declaration of love, or some such thing."

"You must be a most fascinating correspondent, Miss Katherine."

"Oh, no," Kitty said, smiling. "I am a dreadful correspondent, for I always forget to write. And anyway I only have my sisters to write to, and Mary takes care of that quite well, though her letters are little tedious. Are _you_ a good correspondent, Mr. Finch?"

"I am afraid I have not had much chance to be tested. Most of my friends and family live nearby, and as a result most of my letters are letters of business."

"How dull," she said, sympathetically. "Perhaps, after I go back to Longbourn, you may try writing to _me_; and I will tell you whether or not you are good at it."

He surprised her by giving a little laugh.

"I am certainly willing to try," he told her. "I trust you will be scrupulously honest."

"To be sure," she said readily. "It will be easy, for if I must tell you that you are no good at writing for pleasure, then at least I will not have to look in your eyes when I do so—that is the great benefit of a letter, after all. I am not certain I would be so honest in person. I would be most afraid of disappointing you; you have a terribly expressive face."

Mr. Finch's eyes widened.

"Has nobody ever said so before?" she asked.

"I do not think so."

"Well, I mean it as a compliment," she said amiably.

It was very comforting to speak with him, though she had not thought it would be so; it provided a welcome distraction from thoughts of Mr. Price.

* * *

The Bennets did not stay very late at the ball; for once, Kitty, upon seeking out her mother and sister, did not seem particularly desirous of dancing into the night, and Mary was never fond of staying up until all hours. They took their leave from their friends not long after midnight, before the general rush for the door began, and hurried out into the cold night to await their carriage.

The ride home was silent, save a few noisy yawns from Mrs. Bennet's corner.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Kitty?" Mary asked tentatively, as they were preparing for bed. Her sister's spirits had seemed somewhat revived when she had returned to the ballroom, but she had not spoken since they had left the Rooms.

"It was not all bad," Kitty replied honestly, too tired and drained to bother equivocating.

"Are you feeling better than before?"

"A little bit."

Mary was not fully reassured. She climbed slowly into bed, glancing over at her sister's side of the room.

"Is there anything I may do to help?" she asked carefully.

Kitty looked over at her and gave a little smile. "Not just now," she said. "But thank you, Mary. You are a very good sister."

Mary flushed, and pulled the covers up to her shoulders.

"Goodnight, Katherine," she said softly.

"Goodnight."

Kitty leaned over and blew out the candle.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** You guys! Thank you for the lovely reviews, follows, favorites, etc. I only have one question—why do so many people apologize for leaving long reviews? Long reviews are amazing! I love them! : ) Although short reviews make me happy too, of course. I'm always glad to hear from anyone!

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

The morning after a ball is scarcely less busy than the evening which preceded it, for there is always much to be discussed regarding the events which have just taken place (and even if this is not the case, any particularly indefatigable busybody may easily endeavor to embroider or even wholly invent such incidents as will satisfy her—or his—appetite for gossip). This was the mission upon which Mrs. Bennet was engaged on Friday morning; though it was her usual habit to sit and rest upon the morning after a ball, today she was not content to remain at home, for the weather was fine, and she had not imbibed enough over the course of the evening to trouble her poor nerves this morning. Anyway, the evening, she felt, had been an eventful one, and she must dissect it immediately with the aid of Mrs. Carpenter and a few of her other friends.

(Kitty thought it rather amusing that her mother was so eager to discuss everybody else and their scandals, while the one that struck so close to home—Kitty's revelation that she did not love Mr. Price, and all that followed—remained quite unknown to her, or to anyone.)

"Should you like to go with me, my dear?" Mrs. Bennet asked Kitty over breakfast, not bothering to ask Mary, who would only have sighed and rolled her eyes. "Miss Carpenter and her brother may be at home, and I am sure you would like to talk with _them_; and then perhaps we may visit Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and the Harts, and the Daltons, and anybody else who might be interesting."

"Thank you, Mamma," Kitty replied, "but I am expecting a caller this morning."

"Whom do you expect?" Mary asked, looking up from her breakfast; but Mrs. Bennet's gleeful trill of "Oh, my _dear_!" rendered quite unnecessary any response that Kitty might have made.

In fact it was Oliver Finch who was expected, but Kitty chose not to share this with her mother, for it would surely have proved a sore disappointment.

"Of course you must stay at home, then," Mrs. Bennet went on happily. "And Mary must go along with me, for it will not do to have her _glowering_ at him all morning."

"What?" Mary frowned. "No, Mamma, I had planned to read my book."

"Oh, Mary, there will be plenty of time for reading when we are home at Longbourn," was the cross reply. "And I would have you accompany me anyway, if only to prove to everybody that I _do_ have another daughter, though she sits at home all the time; and besides you danced twice with Robert Hart last night, did you not, so you will be able to say so if anybody asks you, instead of shaking your head and pursing your lips as you always do."

Mary, who was shaking her head and pursing her lips now, said, "Rosamond said she may call today."

And this was true; Rosamond had promised to call, in order to speak to Kitty, upon Mary's own request; but Mrs. Bennet was not to know this, and she replied, "Well, then, my dear, we shall call at Hart House first, and save her the trouble. And perhaps we will see Robert that way, as well, before he is obliged to go see to his patients."

"But—" Mary cast a troubled look in her sister's direction. Kitty was gazing absentmindedly into her cup of tea.

"That is quite enough, Mary," Mrs. Bennet said firmly. "I desire you will walk out with me this morning, and so you shall."

Mary, being a dutiful daughter, had no choice but to acquiesce. They left soon after breakfast; Mrs. Bennet, in a flurry of excitement, kissed Kitty on both cheeks and wished her good fortune with her caller. "Perhaps things are moving more quickly even than we had hoped," she whispered into her daughter's ear, and Kitty sighed, though not for the reasons that her mother suspected.

"I shall give your love to Rosamond and Juliet, shall I?" Mary said stiffly, tying her bonnet under her chin.

"Oh, yes, thank you, Mary," Kitty said absently.

"Come, Mary," Mrs. Bennet ordered, tucking Mary's arm securely through her own, and they hurried out.

Kitty, for her part, was glad to be left alone. Her mother's chatter was doing nothing except making her nervous, for she dreaded the necessary disclosure of her feelings—or lack thereof—for Mr. Price; Mrs. Bennet had been so delighted, was yet so delighted, with the certain prospect of her daughter's marriage to such a promising gentleman, that she would certainly not be able to hide her disappointment. And Kitty could not bear to disappoint her mother. She remembered Mrs. Bennet's fury when Lizzie had rejected Mr. Collins; how might she react when Kitty reported that she wished to break the engagement which had created so much happiness?

She had not even begun considering how she ought to broach the subject with the suitor himself. The thought was too intimidating, too much of an inducement to anxiety, and as yet she had only pushed it out of her mind. _He_ would be disappointed, as well, and likely very angry; and the thought frightened her. Besides which, Kitty was not entirely certain that he would not, somehow, be able to charm her into maintaining the engagement—his blue eyes and dashing smile had worked thus far, and there was no guarantee that their hold on her had been forever dislodged.

Indeed, some small part of her wondered if, perhaps, she had not made an utterly hasty decision. She had no evidence that Alexander had truly committed any _real_ wrongdoing; all she had seen was a moment of weakness on his part, which may very well have been all that it was.

Or, if not—if indeed everything had been as it appeared—well—the smallest, saddest part of her wondered if really that was so terrible. She would not be the first woman in the world to marry a philanderer; no, indeed, she had heard enough vague rumors of Wickham's exploits to suppose that she would not even be the first woman in her _family_ to do so. And yet Lydia, writing gushing letters from Newcastle, seemed perfectly happy with her choice of husband—her only complaints were that Newcastle was dull, and her children were tiring. And was not Alexander more handsome than Wickham, and more charming as well; and would not a life with him take place against the glittering backdrop of a London ballroom, rather than the gray cold landscape of the North? He claimed to love her, and perhaps he truly did; perhaps this was only his weakness, and was that not forgivable? Alexander spoke sweetly to her, and made her smile and blush, and even if she had begun to find him rather dull, well, that was not unusual. At least he wished to marry her.

She had never had a gentleman wish to marry her before, and, with a heart fed upon novels and poetry and tales of romance, she had longed for such an attention ever since Lydia had run away from Brighton—even before; for some little part of her had always demanded, Why not _me_? The marriages of Lizzie and Jane had only pressed smirkingly upon that aching part of her, and reminded her that _she_ had no suitor. And now all of her sisters, except Mary, were married and settled, with husbands they adored (however undeservingly, in Lydia's case), and Kitty was still living at Longbourn like a little girl, dependent upon her mother and father, with no prospects besides this one. Could she not forgive Alexander his weakness, if only he would save her from youthful spinsterhood? If only he would be discreet, and not embarrass her? Then she would have a husband—a dashing, handsome husband—and everything would be easier.

But no.

For the same heart which had devoured novels and poetry and tales of romance, and had longed so achingly for a handsome prince to sweep her off of her feet and out of obscurity, would not allow her to take such a step. It was not Alexander's infidelity—if such it could be termed—which troubled her, and so it did not matter how much she rationalized it to herself. It was her own feelings: the strange feeling that she had somehow expected him to betray her, and the stranger feeling that she did not care whether he did.

Kitty's wish had never been for _just_ the handsome prince: she had wished for the entire fairytale, and though she saw now that such a wish was quite naïve, her finer feelings must nonetheless prevent her from marrying a gentleman for whom she had no real esteem. Alexander was handsome; he was charming; and that was all. Two words which had formerly meant so much to her seemed, now, like a rather paltry description of her future spouse, and yet it was all her mind could offer. She did not love him. She could not marry him.

These unhappy reflections occupied her thoughts quite completely as she waited in the sitting-room. The house was quiet, save for the sound of the maid clearing the breakfast dishes in the next room. Kitty glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: it was nearly half-past ten. Mr. Finch had not said when she might expect him, but certainly she had expected him by now. Perhaps he had changed his mind, and would not come at all. The thought rather disappointed her.

Another half-hour passed. Kitty attempted to read one of Mary's novels, but could not make her thoughts stick upon the page. Giving up, she stood and took a turn about the room, then another. Where was Mr. Finch? If he was not to come himself, he ought to at least send a note; she should like to go walk while the weather was fine. She picked up her embroidery, then set it down again. It was just past eleven. Where was he?

At last, she heard the knock upon the door, and the responding footsteps of the housemaid as she went to answer it; a male voice in the vestibule, and two sets of footsteps down the passage toward the sitting-room; and she straightened in her chair, preparing to greet him with a smile. The door opened and the maid stepped in with a low curtsy.

"Mr. Price, miss."

_What_?

Kitty froze, her smile still in place. She certainly had not expected Mr. Price to come visit her—though she dimly supposed that it was only natural, for they were engaged, and he was accustomed to calling at Henry Street whenever he pleased. But he had not said—he had made no mention of any plan—he had sent no inquiring note—

"Thank you, Hannah," she said faintly, as Alexander came into the room, bowing to her with a smile. The maid curtsied again and left. For a brief, panicked moment, Kitty wished nothing more than to call her back again, so that she would not be alone with Alexander.

"Hello, my love," Alexander said, dropping easily into the chair across from her. "I thought I might surprise you today; I did not see as much of you as I would have liked, last night."

Kitty, unable to look at him (for she must do it, now; she must tell him; she could not wait; it was not fair to him), only nodded.

"In fact I caught a glimpse of you as you were leaving," Alexander went on, "and I thought you looked rather out-of-sorts."

"I was tired," Kitty said weakly.

"I am sorry to hear it," he replied. "I only thought I might call upon you today, and be certain that there was nothing which I had done—or which you thought I may have done—which may have upset you. I would not wish for you to be upset, my darling, when it is within my power to prevent it."

There was an odd tone in his voice.

Kitty, a little startled, met his gaze. _Why, he knows_, she thought, shocked, with a sudden flash of clarity. _He knows I saw him with the girl, or he thinks I may have, and he is trying to—what? Placate me? Convince me it did not happen?_

For a moment she was furiously angry, and then it faded again, as fast as it had come. What did it matter? She was suddenly very tired, though it was only a few hours past breakfast.

"I was a little upset," she said, carefully, "that you would not sit with me, after we danced."

An unguarded relief bloomed in his eyes, before he quickly masked it with a smile. "I am sorry for that, my beauty," he answered, "though you know, of course, why I could not. It would not do to have everyone looking at us, and talking about us; gossip is the greatest killer of love."

"Yes, but—"

"At any rate it will not matter for much longer," he said, leaning forward and taking her hand in his own. "Do you remember what I said to you last night, my love? If you wish it, we can be married within a fortnight; I have heard from my friend, the rector, who would be happy to perform the ceremony in Town. Everything is prepared, you see. I could not wait any longer to be joined with my darling, and so I pushed and hurried everyone else along; and now I wait only upon your word."

"Well—"

"And after we are married," he went on, taking her other hand and smiling at her (and his eyes were really _so_ blue), "we may sit together at any ball, and dance together, and dine together, and not care what anybody else says about it. Would that make you happy, sweet one? For that is all I wish: to make you happy."

Kitty hesitated.

The clock chimed to mark the quarter-hour.

"Alexander," she said.

"I love you, Katherine," he cut her off, smoothly. "Do you love me?"

She could not ask for a more fitting introduction to the conversation. Biting her lip, pulling her hands from his (which was not difficult, for her palms had begun sweating profusely), turning slightly away so she would not have to look directly at him, Kitty said very softly,

"Well, that is the trouble, Alexander, for—for I do not really think that I do."

She held her breath. The words sounded cruel to her ears even as she said them, and she wished, for a moment, that she could take them back. But she did not. The room was suddenly very still and very silent.

"I beg your pardon," Alexander said, after a lengthy pause. His voice was flat and cold.

"I am very sorry," Kitty burst out, all in a rush, "and I know it is unkind of me to say so _now_, but I am afraid that—"

"You told me you loved me."

"_Yes_," Kitty said wretchedly, "and I thought that I did. But last night, Alexander, when I saw—well, it was even before that—it was when you proposed, and I was so happy at first but then I was so confused, and afraid, and I did not know why. And now I think it is because I do not _truly_ wish to marry you, and I am sorry that I ever told you I would, but I cannot."

To her shock, a smile broke over his face, and he rose from his seat to sit beside her and put an arm about her shoulders. Kitty stiffened and tried to pull away, but he held her tightly.

"I see what the trouble is," he said, his voice kind. "You are merely nervous, because I have said that we may be married so soon, and now you feel as if the world is spinning too quickly. It is only natural for a young lady, about to be married, to have such little moments of anxiety. You need not be sorry for these thoughts, my dear; I am not offended by them, and I will never hold them against you. I understand very well."

"I am not sorry for the _thoughts_," Kitty retorted, rather annoyed now. She pulled away from him to stand. "I am only sorry for having made you believe that I loved you, when in fact it was not true. It was wrong of me, but I did not do it a-purpose. I was fooled as well."

He stood as well, and they faced each other. "Be wary there, Miss Bennet, lest you say something you will regret later."

"I am already regretting everything," she returned, glaring at him. "I am very sorry to hurt you in this fashion, but it is all true. I do not love you and I cannot marry you. It is good, at least," she added, more gently, "that nobody knew we were engaged; this way we shall not have to make any awkward explanations. You have not even written to Papa yet—you told me last night that you had not. And so our separation shall be as painless as possible, under the circumstances."

Alexander was frowning now, a dark frown that sent a little thrill of disquiet along her spine, though she did her best to ignore it. "I am afraid you are mistaken, my _dear_, for there shall be no separation. You do not know what you are saying; this is your nerves speaking, and it changes nothing between us."

"It is not my nerves; I have told you it is not! I have spent the past week—"

"Encouraged by your spinster sister, no doubt, the little grimalkin who despises me because I dare to enjoy myself; and that shrew Rosamond Hart, and that idiot Oliver Finch—am I correct in my thinking?"

"Not at all," she insisted, becoming tearful with frustration. "I have thought all by myself, and reconsidered everything, and I—"

"It has taken you _two months_ to fall in love with me, and yet one week is enough time for you to reconsider everything? I cannot believe it. You have been speaking to someone; you have been fed some pack of lies which has turned you against me."

"Who would wish to turn me against you?" she demanded, wiping bitterly at her eyes.

"I can think of a few names."

Kitty took a deep, shuddering breath. "It does not matter," she said. "I have spoken to no one, and have decided everything on my own, even if you do not believe me. Do you think this is what I wished—to hurt you and make you angry with me? Do you not think I would marry you, if I could? But I _cannot_, Alexander, and I am sorry; I cannot, I cannot love you!"

"I do not believe you." His expression was dark with fury.

"You must."

"No; I do not. We will be married within a fortnight, as planned, and you will put all of this behind you. You are being very stupid just now, my love."

"I have told you—"

"You promised you would marry me," he interjected easily. "You gave me your word. In business, my dear, that is called a verbal contract, and it cannot be broken. You may ask your friend Theodore Hart about that. I will not be denied what I am owed."

Kitty stormed away from him. "You are being horrid," she declared over her shoulder, "and I am glad I have realized my mistake now, if this is what I should have been married to!"

"Lower your voice, Katherine—we don't wish the housemaid to hear," he said contemptuously. "Shall we talk further about the wedding arrangements? I am sure that will lift your spirits."

Kitty's hands curled into fists, and she took a deep breath. "I think you ought to go," she said, as firmly as she could, though her voice was still wavering and tears still stained her cheeks.

"I don't think I shall. I cannot leave you like this," he said, his voice a mockery of its usual tenderness, "when you are so distressed. It would be cruel of me."

"Go," she demanded, turning back to face him. Alexander leaned lazily against the mantelpiece, watching her with a smirk that made her wish, more than anything else, to hit him. His face did not look so handsome to her now.

"You are very fortunate, you know," he said calmly. "I am acquainted with a great many beauties, who possess wit and vivacity to spare, and would be honored to have my attention; and yet I chose _you_, a plain little country-lass. How many gentlemen may be counted upon to make the same choice?"

She was white with shock and rage. Why was he speaking so to her?

"Calm down, my dear, lest you strain yourself. Take a seat, and rest for a moment." He came toward her, catching her wrist in his hand, and pulled her back toward the settee.

"Leave me alone," she snapped, resisting. His grip tightened roughly, and her natural contrariness reared its head as she dug her heels into the carpet and pulled away from him. "Do not touch me. I want to you to go."

"Be easy, sweet one. I will not hurt you." But his voice was not comforting.

"Leave me _alone_," she repeated, pulling away from him with a sudden violent energy that dislodged his grip; she staggered backward, catching herself on the back of a chair, as he stumbled. He straightened himself again and glared at her. Kitty moved quickly so that the chair was between them, and returned the glare. "I have said that I want you to go, and if you do not then I will scream and—"

She did not know how she would have finished the sentence, but it did not matter, for at that moment the door opened again and the maid entered with a curtsy. "Mr. Finch," she announced, glancing confusedly from Kitty to Mr. Price.

Oliver Finch, coming into the room and bowing, paused for a moment upon seeing the other gentleman standing by the settee. The door swung shut behind him as Hannah made her hasty escape.

"Have I interrupted something?" Mr. Finch asked quietly.

"In fact you have, Finch," Alexander cut in smoothly, before Kitty could respond. "I believe Kitty has told you, against my advisement I must add, how matters stand between us; and so I ask that you, as a gentleman of discretion, leave us alone for the moment. We are merely having a small disagreement, of the sort usual between young couples."

"I was speaking to Miss Katherine," Mr. Finch said, gazing at Mr. Price. That gentleman's eyes narrowed.

"_Miss Katherine_ is rather distraught at the moment, and does not know what she is—"

"Miss Katherine," Oliver Finch interrupted, turning dark serious eyes on Kitty, "is everything quite all right?"

Kitty had been watching them with her heart in her mouth, uncertain what she should do; this was a situation wholly unfamiliar to her, and she felt as though it were all quite unreal, as if she were watching a play or reading a novel. Mr. Finch's address startled her, and she glanced at him.

"No," she said, feeling the tears begin again, "no, he will not go away, though I have told him I cannot marry him and I have asked him to leave, and he will not—"

"As I said," Alexander said, loudly, "she is distraught, and does not entirely know her own mind. I was only encouraging her to sit and rest for a moment."

"That is kind of you," Mr. Finch said wryly, "but to my ears, she sounds quite sure of herself."

"You do not know her as I do; and anyway, this is nothing to do with you. As her betrothed, it is my duty to see that she is quite comfortable and—"

"I do not think you are betrothed any longer."

Alexander fixed Oliver Finch with a forbidding glare, and Kitty was suddenly very glad that she was not alone with him anymore. "You are an ass, Finch," he bit out, "and you have a most unfortunate habit of sticking your nose where it does not belong."

"I am afraid your presence is no longer desired," Oliver said, speaking very clearly, as he took a few slow steps forward.

"You have no right to—"

"You should go, Mr. Price."

"I will not be ordered about by some half-wit country preacher!"

Oliver looked down at him, and it suddenly became clear, to everyone in the room, that Mr. Finch was in fact rather a good deal larger than Mr. Price. Alexander was not a short man, but he was thin; Oliver was at least two inches taller, and his shoulders were broad and strong where the other's were narrow. That there would be no contest, should the matter actually come to blows, was very much apparent. The thought seemed to occur to Alexander, for he took a few steps backward, and swallowed hard.

"I am in love with her," he said, a wheedling tone creeping into his voice.

"That is not my concern," Mr. Finch replied gravely. "Nor, I think, is it Miss Katherine's concern, any longer."

"You cannot burst in here and—"

"I did not burst in; I was expected. And now it is time for you to go."

"She—"

"Goodbye, Mr. Price," Mr. Finch said, in a tone which brooked no argument.

"Kitty," Alexander said, turning to her with wide eyes, "are you to allow this hulking imbecile to throw me out of your house, as if I am so much refuse? I, the man who would be your husband? I love you, Kitty; I love you more than anything, and I only want to marry you and make you happy!"

"Perhaps," Kitty said, feeling rather weak-kneed, "but I am afraid that marrying you will not make me happy; and anyway I am not certain I believe you anymore."

He stared at her, his expression quite unreadable, and looked as though he were about to say something else; but Mr. Finch took another step forward and Alexander put his hands up, as if in surrender, and skirted around the other gentleman toward the door.

"I did not take you for a liar, Miss Bennet," he tossed bitterly over his shoulder. "Nor a trifler."

This was so unjust that Kitty spun on her heel and opened her mouth; but she could think of nothing to say. It was not entirely necessary, at any rate, for Oliver Finch strode across the room very quickly and caught Mr. Price roughly on the shoulder, turning him round without any effort.

"I am certain, sir," he said, his voice quiet as ever, but without its usual diffidence, "that some urgent matter of business has arisen which requires your immediate return to London. It is perhaps for the best, as I think you will find life in Bath rather unpleasant henceforth. Miss Bennet is possessed of many excellent friends here, who I am sure will not be pleased to hear how you have deceived her."

"I don't know what you mean," Mr. Price said coldly.

"Indeed? Well, you will find out before very much longer. Goodbye, Mr. Price."

Mr. Price afforded Kitty a last, long glare, which she met as evenly as she was able. He looked as though he wished to speak; but with a glance at Mr. Finch he seemed to think better of it, and left the room in a huff, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass in the windowpane rattled. They waited a moment in a tense silence, listening to his footsteps along the passage. Then the sound of the front door slamming broke the spell, and Oliver Finch looked at Kitty anxiously.

"Are you quite all right, Miss Katherine?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she said faintly. She took a step out from behind the chair, upon which she had been leaning; but the strain of the past several days, and more pressingly of the past several minutes, caught up with her all at once, and she staggered sideways. The last thing of which she was aware, as the black fog rushed over her mind, was a startled exclamation and a hurried movement, and the feeling of strong arms catching her.

* * *

It took some time, after Kitty had revived, for her to stop crying; these were helpless sobs, with nothing behind them but a need for release. Mr. Finch, red with embarrassment, sat uncomfortably beside her on the settee, making vague comforting noises and offering her a glass of brandy which he had acquired from the housemaid. Kitty was glad to have him by, for though he had not Mr. Hart's skill at soothing tears, he was nonetheless a warm friendly presence when she would rather not be alone. Besides which, she found his awkwardness somehow rather endearing.

After her tears had tapered off and she had drained the glass, he asked, haltingly, if he might speak to her upon the matter which he had broached the previous evening.

"Is it to do with Mr. Price?" she asked dully.

"I am afraid so," he answered. "Would it pain you to hear of him? I do not wish to cause you any further distress."

Kitty shook her head. "I think I should like to hear it," she said softly. "Or, I shouldn't _like_ to, but I think I ought."

He hesitated for a long moment, but finally began, with a last plea that she would stop him if his words gave her pain. This is what he told her:

Mrs. Price and Miss Price had indeed come to Bath two years ago (he said), and had spent a Season in James Street, not far from where the Fitzwilliams lived now. Mrs. Price was at first too ill to go out very much, or spend much time in the public rooms, and Miss Price, who was sixteen or seventeen at the time, spent most of her days tending her mother; but as Mrs. Price began to improve, the young lady was able to spend more of her time out of the house, and he had the good fortune of making her acquaintance.

"Mr. Finch," Kitty sniffled, "this story is taking rather a long time to tell."

"Forgive me, Miss Katherine," he replied seriously, and went on.

He found her an amiable young lady, though she never seemed particularly at ease in company; and as _he_ was scarcely more generally sociable than she, they were naturally drawn together, and over time established a friendship. Miss Price was good-natured, but quiet, and always seemed rather preoccupied. He assumed that it was her mother's health which worried her, but one evening, as they walked together in Sydney Gardens, she quite suddenly confessed to him that she did not know how they were to live after they left Bath. They had come for the sake of Mrs. Price's health, and their funds had been quite depleted by the rental of their lodgings in James Street; she did not know what they were to do next.

Mr. Finch said nothing, for he did not know what there was to say. He could not know, then, whether she was speaking the truth, or merely playing upon his sympathies; though it troubled him to think anyone could be so callous, he had enough experience of the world to take each word with a grain of salt. They walked on in silence, and at length Miss Price, perhaps sensing the turn of his thoughts, told him that she had no desire for charity, and was not asking him for any of his own money.

"It is only that I find you an excellent listener," she said, and asked if she may tell him more of her history, and perhaps have his advice as to what may be done. He agreed.

They had once lived very well indeed, she said. They had a fine house in Chelmsford, and her parents were much in love; she and her brother were always very fond of each other. Yet, as they grew older, her brother had grown rather wild and willful. Sent away to school, he had spent money carelessly, and had written home often to request more. When he returned to Chelmsford, it was to find his father deathly ill; and yet he had remained more concerned with the world and its amusements than with the suffering of his family. Whatever affection he had had for his mother and sister seemed quite evaporated, and he spent little time at his father's bedside.

The elder Mr. Price, distressed at the loss of his son, hoped to reclaim him, and so he made a grave mistake. In composing his will, he established the younger Mr. Price as the sole executor, leaving him in charge of the family's entire estate. Though Mrs. Price and Miss Price begged him not to do so, the old gentleman held firm. He had faith, he told them, that the responsibility would force his son to outgrow his childish thirst for amusements, and take his rightful place in the world as a gentleman. Miss Price had no such faith, but could hardly tell her father so, as he lay dying.

Indeed, when at last the elder Mr. Price passed, his wife and daughter found themselves proven all too correct in their unhappy predictions. The younger Mr. Price continued to spend money haphazardly: he had a penchant for making poor investments, and for gambling in less lawful ways as well, and within two years they were obliged to move out of their fine house and sell their fine things. This would not have been such a trial, Miss Price said earnestly, if only her brother had shown some remorse; but he seemed quite untroubled by their difficulties, so long as he had enough money to entertain himself. She took to reproaching him, then begging him, but had only succeeded in incurring his displeasure. Mrs. Price fell ill, and in a last act of spitefulness, tired of their chastisements, Mr. Price extracted enough money from his accounts to send his mother and sister to Bath for a Season, and then warned them never again to contact him and ask for money; the money was his, and he would spend it as he pleased. He moved to London, and did not speak to them again.

And so now they were in Bath, Miss Price had concluded miserably, with no thought as to what they could do next. They had no more money, and from what she understood, her brother was not much better off; his careless spending had begun to catch up with him, and debts were beginning to mount. They had not heard from him since they had been in Bath, and she did not expect to. If one thing yet remained of the brother she had known in childhood, it was his obstinacy. She did not know what he would do for money, but she was quite certain he would not share it with his mother and sister.

"After Miss Price and her mother left Bath," Mr. Finch said, "I did not have much further cause to think on the matter. At the end of the next Season, however, Mr. Price appeared here. I did not realize at first that he was the brother of the young lady I had met, but before long I grew rather suspicious. His—his friends, the ones he stays with here, are of a rather unsavory character, though he makes himself agreeable to everyone; besides which, there was some talk, that first year, of a young lady in London—the daughter of an earl, who had been engaged to him and who had abruptly been removed to her family's country house."

"Rose did not tell me so," Kitty breathed, stricken.

"I do not believe it is the sort of rumor which Rosamond would know," Mr. Finch admitted. "No one of our general circle is much acquainted with Mr. Price, nor with his friends. I heard the story from my eldest brother, who had heard it from several of his solicitor friends in Town; apparently the young lady's family was considering legal action, though I do not know what could have been done. One of Rowland's friends was in fact the solicitor who had drawn up the elder Mr. Price's will, and could confirm that that part of the story was true."

"But the rest of it—"

"The rest of it, I admit, may be true or false," he replied. "I have only Miss Price's word to go upon, and you have only mine. But I had—as you have, if you will forgive me—the evidence of Mr. Price's character, which has never struck me as particularly genuine. I am afraid," he added, with a very small smile, "that I am in the habit of distrusting those who smile too easily, and are too eager to compliment and praise. Perhaps it is only envy on my part."

Kitty was suddenly reminded of her father's laughing description of Mr. Wickham, a very long time ago now: _He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably_. She pressed a hand to her head, which was beginning to ache.

"But if he is such a man as you suppose him," she said softly, though she could hardly doubt it, given the evidence of her own eyes and the sinking feeling in her stomach, "what on earth should he want with _me_? I am no one; I am no earl's daughter, or anything close. Papa is not even a knight."

Mr. Finch reddened. "I do not wish to be indelicate," he said, carefully. "But it is—well, it is generally known that your two eldest sisters are fairly recently married."

"Yes, but—" His point struck her, and she sank back into the settee. "Oh."

And now she was remembering Mr. Price's first words to her: _Are you indeed the sister-in-law of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley? _And he had always seemed so eager to visit Pemberley, and to be acquainted with her brothers—but not until they were married, of course…and Kitty had been so _stupid_. Of course he had set his sights upon her. Young ladies of fortune were carefully watched—he had even acknowledged the fact once; a rare prize indeed was the country girl of no name or family who was yet equipped with not one, but _two_ rich brothers-in-law, and traveled quite unsupervised. And of course he had not wanted anyone to know that they were engaged, for had she not told him that she was related by marriage to Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Hart, either of whom might write to their cousin Mr. Darcy? _They_ were his only concern; he did not care for gossips or prying eyes or anything else; he had only wanted her unwatched until they could be married, lest any of her well-connected relations try to interfere. And Kitty, with no one else to look after her but a doting mother impatient to see her wed, had been so easy, so eager to be flattered and charmed and loved…

Oliver Finch was watching her with trepidation, as though at any moment she might swoon again. "This conversation cannot be easy for you," he said sorrowfully, "and I am so sorry to cause you distress; you must know that. But I thought I ought to tell you, for I believe I am the only one here to whom Miss Price ever spoke of the matter."

"Why have you waited so long?" she asked faintly. He blushed.

"I did not—I did not think you would listen before," he answered. "We were not well acquainted, and it would have been very forward of me. Besides which, I wished to write to Miss Price, and ask first if I might share her story with you. I did not want to do her an injustice."

This caught Kitty's attention. "You write to her?"

"Not regularly, no. But after our conversation, I was able to connect her with a friend in Cambridge, who found her a position as a governess there; and I kept the address."

She regarded him with wide eyes. "You are a very good sort of person, Mr. Finch."

He gave a little smile. "You are kind, Miss Katherine."

They sat in silence for awhile, Kitty reflecting carefully over everything which had occurred and everything which she had been told, and by turns cursing herself for her idiocy, and congratulating herself on a narrow escape. She still felt rather faint, as though nothing which had taken place was quite real, and she might wake from this dream at any moment.

It was better, somehow, to be hearing Mr. Finch's recital _after_ she had already broken the engagement, even coming so swiftly on the heels of such a distressing scene, for there was none of the pain and disbelief of hearing her beloved ill spoken of (as must have afflicted the poor earl's daughter, banished to the countryside for her indiscretion). Mr. Price himself had done an excellent job of destroying whatever sympathy or affection for him might have lingered within her; the insults he had offered her, the arrogance and unkindness of his manner, had only proven to her that she was choosing a-right in separating from him. The little flashes of his dark temper which she had seen before had, she knew now, been only glimpses of the real thing. Listening to Mr. Finch, she felt only the satisfaction of hearing confirmed every doubt she had had, and feeling justified in her anger and distrust; yet this mingled, of course, with the deep humiliation and painful regret that she had ever been so deceived in the first place, and had not taken the warnings along the way for what they were.

Mary was quite correct, Kitty thought ruefully; she _was_ silly, and shallow, and vain, and perhaps it served her right—perhaps all of this was only what she deserved for her stupidity. But she could not be so any longer. She had always wished to live inside of a novel, and now she was: now she was freshly escaped from the sort of scandal which made excellent reading, but terrible living. It was hardly the thrill she had imagined.

One question still nagged at her, and eventually she put it to Mr. Finch. "What did you mean, that he would find life in Bath very unpleasant? Lord knows there is nothing _I_ can do to him, whatever anyone says about women being scorned."

Mr. Finch met her eyes. "Miss Price has authorized me to make her account public," he said. "I am certain he would not be so popular here, if his nature were more generally understood."

Kitty bit her lip. "Miss Price is charitable," she said carefully, "but I am selfish, and I do not want _my_ account made public. Papa would never forgive me, or let me out of the house again, and Lizzie and Jane would be so disappointed, if only they knew how close I came to—"

"Pray, be easy," he entreated. "I do not think it necessary to tell how he has—treated you. I think his treatment of his mother and sister will cause censure enough. And who can say? The story may travel back to London, as such things often do; and he may find life there rather unpleasant, as well."

Kitty smiled in spite of herself. "I did not think it entirely proper, for clergymen to spread gossip."

He returned her smile with a smaller one of his own. "There will be no gossip. It is only a matter of having a conversation with one or two people, with the understanding that absolutely everything I say is in the strictest confidence. I have lived here long enough," he added, rather drily, "to know how these things work."

Kitty laughed, and it was a great and surprising relief to do so.

They sat comfortably for another long moment. Kitty could scarcely remember when Mr. Finch's silences had irritated her so much; now she was glad to have him quiet.

"Mr. Finch," she said, after awhile, "you said that Miss Price was a governess?"

"I did."

"And do you—" Kitty bit her lip. "Do you think she is happy?"

He gazed at her for a long moment. "I think she is content," he said at last.

"And her mother?"

"I understand she is much improved. She has married again, to a widowed gentleman in her daughter's neighborhood."

"And the earl's daughter, I imagine, has married someone wonderful," Kitty said thoughtfully, "as shall Miss Price, I hope, if it suits her to do so. And I am sure I shall do the same, although not for a long time; I am quite sick of being in love. Well, that is good, at least."

"Is it?"

"Well, yes," she said. "For at least Mr. Price did not manage to _ruin_ anybody, you know. Not completely. Everyone has survived, and has gone on to other things, and is probably the wiser for it, somehow."

Mr. Finch was regarding her curiously. "That is an admirable view to take, Miss Katherine."

Kitty blushed a little. "Well," she said modestly, "one must find the silver lining."

He nodded, a faint smile playing about his lips.

"And," she added, suddenly feeling very self-conscious, "I have been very remiss in thanking you, for I do not think I have done so yet. Thank you, Mr. Finch—for arriving when you did, though you were later than I thought you would be; and for ridding me of Mr. Price, and for telling me the truth, and for catching me when I fainted. You are an excellent friend—better than I deserve, I am sure."

He blushed, and looked away from her. "You are not so undeserving as you think, Miss Katherine."

"Indeed I am, for I have been unkind to you before," she said sadly, "and you have only ever done good things for me. Is there anything I may do for you? —Any brave deeds you may need performed?"

Mr. Finch smiled. "Not just now, Miss Katherine; but should a need arise in future, I will alert you."

Kitty considered this. Perhaps, she thought, there _was_ something she might do for him; perhaps she might speak to Rosamond on his behalf, and acquaint her friend with the heroic nature of her unassuming suitor, and so turn that tide in Mr. Finch's favor.

She was thinking how best to go about the matter when there was the sound of the front door opening, and they both froze, glancing at each other; but the voices in the vestibule were female, and the footsteps in the passage quick and light. The door to the sitting-room opened again, and Mrs. Bennet, catching sight of a male figure seated beside her daughter, beamed.

"Mr. Pr—oh," she said, for it was not the gentleman she had expected. "Hello, Mr. Finch."

"Mrs. Bennet," he responded quietly, standing to bow. "Miss Bennet."

"Hello, Mr. Finch," Mary said warmly; for any gentleman who was not Mr. Price had a natural advantage in her estimation.

There was a long awkward pause. Kitty was not at all certain how she ought to acquaint her mother—and sister, for really Mary had a right to know—with the events of the past hour or so; and Mrs. Bennet was eager to ask her daughter whether Mr. Price had called, and if so what news he had shared, but could not do so with Mary and Mr. Finch present; and Mary had no talent for small-talk.

"Did you enjoy the ball last night, Mr. Finch?" Mrs. Bennet asked at last, resigning herself to being agreeable for a few minutes, until their company could be got rid of.

"I did indeed."

"I saw you dancing with Miss Hart—twice, was it not? I am very observant, you know."

He blushed. "Miss Hart is a very able dancer."

"We called upon her earlier this morning," Mrs. Bennet reported, "and I must say that I have never seen her in such excellent spirits. She laughed at everything, and could scarcely keep the smile from her face. If this is _your_ doing, sir, I congratulate you." She winked at him.

"If it is my doing," he said, his face even redder now, "then I am glad. But I am sure the credit is due elsewhere."

"Nonsense; there is only one thing which can make a young lady laugh and smile in that _particular_ way, and we all know very well what that is. I will not say any more just now, for I understand Kitty likes me to be discreet about these things. Only know that there are a great many such events taking place these days; I had never thought autumn a particularly favorable season for romance, but it seems I am proven wrong!"

Mr. Finch looked as though he wished to sink into the floor, and Kitty hurriedly endeavored to change the subject.

"Did Mrs. Carpenter have anything to say, Mamma?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing very interesting," Mrs. Bennet said dismissively. "Miss Carpenter has set her sights upon the younger Mr. Morgan, and as they danced twice last night, well, _that_ was all Mrs. Carpenter wished to discuss. She is sure they are soon to be engaged, and so her conversation was very dull. I cannot abide these women who only ever wish to talk about their own children, and cannot see how tedious everybody else finds it."

Nobody had anything to say to this, and after another awkward silence Mr. Finch, clearing his throat, rose to take his leave.

"I shall walk with you to the door," Kitty said, rising as well. Her mother gave her a questioning glance, which she ignored, in favor of walking with Mr. Finch into the vestibule and watching him put on his coat.

"Thank you," she said again, softly. He looked up from his buttons and gave her the widest smile which she had ever seen from him.

"It was no trouble," he replied. "I am only glad that I was able to help. I admire your composure, Miss Katherine."

"I am not _so_ composed," she said, with a nervous little giggle. "I fainted, after all; and I am sure I cried for longer than was strictly necessary."

"Yet you do not seem—you do not seem as though you will be pining for him," he said carefully, "which is what I meant."

"Lord, no." Kitty waved a dismissive hand. "I am very good at falling in and out of love. Or I _have_ been; I do not think I will be any longer. It does not seem so amusing to me now."

"That is wise."

"Yes, but it is wisdom which has come too late," she sighed, "as is always the way, I find. Anyway, Mr. Finch, I am really—I am really _very_ grateful to you. I do not know what I would have done—well, I probably would have screamed, but your way was much better. I think he was really frightened of you."

"I would not have struck him. It would not befit a clergyman to do so," Mr. Finch said stiffly.

"No, but I am sure _he_ did not know that."

She watched Mr. Finch finish his top two buttons and, when he went to bow to her, instead surged forward and put her arms lightly about his shoulders. He stood, shocked into stillness, and then gave her a tiny awkward pat upon the shoulder.

"Thank you again," she whispered, standing on her toes to speak into his ear. She released him, and they stepped away from each other, both blushing.

"It was no trouble," he repeated, not meeting her eyes. "If there is anything else you need—anything I may do for you—"

"You have done enough," she said warmly. "Now I must only think of repaying you."

"Please, do not trouble yourself."

"You are too polite, Mr. Finch," she giggled. "If we continue telling each other how appreciative we are, and how much we should like to help one another, then you will never leave; you will be trapped here forever. I shall not keep you any longer. Thank you again, and do _not_ tell me it was no trouble," she added, grinning, as he opened his mouth, "and I hope to see you again very soon. You are always most welcome at Henry Street."

He looked as if he wished to say more, but after a brief pause merely bowed, and smiled at her (how had she ever thought Mr. Price's smile so appealing?), and went out into the bright sunshine.

* * *

Returning to the sitting-room, Kitty's revived humor began to fade as she felt again the fatigue of the morning's events. She was exhausted, and still a little stunned; and now she felt the added anxiety of telling her mother what had occurred, and facing her inevitable disappointment. She thought it was a matter which must be approached delicately, lest Mrs. Bennet fall into one of her nervous attacks, which seemed to trouble her most frequently when she was receiving unwanted news.

That good lady looked up impatiently when Kitty came back into the room. "Whatever was Mr. Finch doing here, my love?" she demanded, without preamble. "Why does he come to Henry Street, and not go to Hart House? He must know that we can have no use for him; and I am _sure_ that Miss Hart would have been glad of his company this morning."

"He was—"

"I only hope he did not interrupt your morning with Mr. Price," her mother went on, paying her no attention. "You ought to have had Hannah say you were not at home. What a strange man! I do not know why he is determined to spend so much time in company, when it is clear that he does not enjoy it."

"Perhaps he is forced to do so by his fond mother," Mary offered wryly. Mrs. Bennet frowned at her.

"You sound far too much like your father when you speak so, Miss Mary. At any rate I am sure I do not know why he should have come _here_, of all places. And to outstay Mr. Price, who was invited and expected!"

"In fact I had invited—"

"It is incomprehensible; I can see no sense in it. I hope he and Miss Hart are to be married soon, for she has such lovely manners, and perhaps her influence can improve him somewhat."

"He is truly—"

"What did Mr. Price have to say to you, my dear?" Mrs. Bennet resumed, more sedately. "I hope it was good news—oh!" She glanced at Mary. "I am sorry, my love; I forgot that you had not said anything to Mary."

"About what?" Mary demanded, looking from one to the other. Kitty, rather overwhelmed, sank into the arm-chair behind her.

"May I tell her? I suppose I must, now," Mrs. Bennet chirped. "Mary, your sister is—"

"I am not engaged to Mr. Price!" Kitty burst out, forgetting that she had resolved to be subtle and delicate. "At least," she added, at a more regular volume, "not anymore."

The look upon Mrs. Bennet's face would have been comical, had Kitty not felt quite so wretched: she was the picture of shock. Her mouth moved, but she seemed entirely unable to find the words. Mary, however, had no such difficulty.

"You were _engaged_ to him?" she demanded, whipping her head around to glare at her sister. It was by far the least threatening glare which Kitty had received today, and so she did not quail at her sister's anger as she might have ordinarily done.

"I was," she said, not quite calm, but doing her best to sound so.

"And you are not anymore?" Mrs. Bennet cried, her voice shrill.

"I am not."

"But how on earth—"

"Mamma, he is not the man we thought!"

"How could you have been such a fool?" Mary exclaimed, her face going red.

"I do not know," Kitty said desperately, "but I am not anymore, Mary; that is what I am trying to tell you!"

"He is a shallow, vapid, thoughtless—"

"He is worse than that," Kitty said, "though he is very good at hiding it; even you must admit, Mary, you never suspected him of anything truly _bad_! Nor you, Mamma, nor I; but the way he spoke to me this morning, when I told him I did not love him—"

"_Why did you tell him so_?" Mrs. Bennet shrieked.

"Because I did not!" Kitty shouted, leaping to her feet. "It is all I have been thinking about, ever since he proposed, only I did not recognize it! I _thought_ I loved him, Mamma, because I thought he loved me—he was so kind to me, and so charming and wonderful, and of course I was convinced because it was just like the fairy-stories—and then it became _real_, do you see? He asked me to marry him and everything became real, and all of a sudden I could not bear it anymore!"

She was tearful by now, and breathing heavily; her mother and sister were staring at her, shocked into silence by her outburst. Kitty scrubbed impatiently at her eyes. She was very tired of crying. She was very tired.

"I could not have married him," she said in a low voice. "I did not love him."

She sank into the chair again and buried her face in her hands. There was a long stretch of silence.

"Oh, Katherine," Mary breathed.

"You should be glad, Mary," Kitty said, with an improbable laugh, "for I think I finally understand what you have been talking about, when you say I ought to behave more seriously, and not allow myself to become carried away."

"Oh, Katherine," Mary said again, sadly.

Mrs. Bennet had been silent; but now she shifted, and sniffed. "And so you broke the engagement?" she asked, her tone unreadable.

Kitty raised her head and met her mother's eyes, though she could see nothing in them. "I had to, Mamma," she said miserably. "It would have been a torment, being married to him; not only because I did not love him, but because he was so unkind to me this morning—and then because I understood _why_ he wished to marry me. It was not because he loved me, Mamma. He told me as much; he told me very plainly that there were many better women, prettier and cleverer and better, whom he would rather marry instead of a plain little country-lass—"

"He said _what_?" A flash of fury lit Mrs. Bennet's face, startling both her daughters.

"That there were—"

"He referred to _my_ daughter as a 'plain little country-lass'?" Mrs. Bennet demanded, gaining volume. "He told her that there were better women he might marry? He dared to speak so to _my_ _child_?"

Kitty stared at her; whatever she had expected, it was not this. But at least her mother's anger was not, for the moment, directed at her, and so she offered, "He said I was fortunate that he had chosen me."

"_He said so_?" Mrs. Bennet screeched, raising herself to her full height. "The impudent man! It was _his_ good fortune, my girl, not yours, that you agreed to marry him at all; and we are well rid of him, if this is how he speaks of my daughter! The arrogance! I cannot abide arrogance in a man, girls, for it is a most unattractive quality; and I cannot believe we were all so deceived by him!"

"_I_ was not deceived by him," Mary interjected, more out of habit than spite. Mrs. Bennet ignored her.

"I cannot blame you, Kitty; one cannot be expected to marry a man who thinks so little of her! I shall not even favor him with the word 'gentleman,' no indeed, for he is nothing of the sort! How dare he! What abominable pride! I hope you did not listen to him, my dear; I hope you did not take him at his word! There are _no_ better women than my daughters, and I am sure we may find a thousand gentlemen more worthy of their hands than this _Mr. Price_, as he calls himself! I shall tell everybody how hard he has treated my daughter, and _then_ he will not be so welcome at every assembly, I warrant!"

"Please do not, Mamma," Kitty broke in hastily. "There are—there are other things which we may say of him, which will do greater harm to his name; I do not wish anyone to know that we were ever engaged."

"And so you should not!" Mrs. Bennet fumed. "You are quite right, my dear; we shall have nothing to do with him! It will be as though we have never heard the name, and if anybody asks us, then we will deny the connection altogether! 'A plain little country-lass' indeed! I cannot believe the nerve of him!"

"What do you mean, Kitty," Mary asked, "that there are other things we may say of him?"

Kitty bit her lip. Mary was regarding her curiously; Mrs. Bennet, too, had at last fallen silent, and her every feature expressed her expectation.

"Well," Kitty began at last, choosing her words with care, "that is why Mr. Finch came to call."

* * *

The evening was quiet at Henry Street.

Mrs. Bennet, having heard Kitty's tale, had renounced Mr. Price entirely, and declared herself disgusted with him. She could never abide feeling that her daughters were ill-used: she had been appalled when Mr. Darcy had insulted Lizzie at that first Meryton assembly, had been enraged when Mr. Bingley had left Jane to go to Town, and had been aghast when Mr. Wickham had convinced Lydia to run away with him (though Lydia had seemed so delighted by the affair that her ire had soon faded). Mr. Price, however, she considered the worst of the lot; for while all of the others had ultimately redeemed themselves by marrying her daughters and making them happy (and rich—except in the last case), it did not seem as though Mr. Price had any intention of doing so. Besides which, Lizzie had laughed at Darcy's insult and Jane had at least disclaimed any unhappiness in the face of Bingley's abandonment; but Kitty's suffering was so readily apparent that Mrs. Bennet considered Mr. Price as tantamount to a murderer, and swore to tell everybody of his villainy.

Mary, as was her wont, felt a little self-righteous thrill upon hearing that she had been quite correct in her feelings for Mr. Price—not, of course, that she had suspected him of abandoning his family to the poorhouse, but _certainly_ she had never believed that he was a completely respectable gentleman. More than this, however, she was glad of her sister's rescue, though a little hurt that Kitty had not thought to trust her with her confidence; and she could not suppress a certain amount of worry. Mary, who for all her thought and study had no great genius for reading people, wished she knew better what was passing through her sister's mind. One moment Kitty smiled and spoke easily, and the next she was inattentive to anything save her own thoughts.

And what were these thoughts?

It was hard for Kitty to say, exactly. She was too fatigued to spend much time in self-reflection; instead she merely let her thoughts and feelings wash over her.

There was relief, of course. There was anger and bitterness, not only directed toward Mr. Price but also for her own foolishness. There was a certain sadness: for there had been a brief shining period in her young life where love and affection seemed a happy constant, and where everything had seemed as though it could only be better; and now that was quite ended. No longer had she flirtations, or moments of tenderness, or proofs of devotion, to look forward to—and though she would not have wanted any from Mr. Price _now_, even if he had offered them, she could not help missing the feeling of being loved (or, at least, of believing that somebody loved her). There was a worry that she could not trust herself as she once had. She had been _so_ sure of Mr. Price—at least until he proposed to her—and she had been so misled. How, then, could she ever again know that her feelings were not the result of deception and vanity and wishful thinking?

And there was something else, too, which nagged at her: some feeling of loss, not of any person or thing but of something far more difficult to name. The world, as she looked at it now, did not seem quite so easy or friendly or amusing as it once had. Certainly there were still good things (for Kitty, even under the direst circumstances, was an eternal optimist), and certainly there had always been bad things; but never before had the bad things seemed so close, or the good things so few.

"Kitty?"

Kitty, who had been supine, gazing absently at the ceiling, glanced over at her sister. Mary was sitting up in bed, combing through her hair with her fingers in a manner that made it stick out all over the place. Despite her inner turmoil, Kitty could not suppress a smile.

"Kitty," Mary said, hesitantly, "I am very sorry that—that you have spent this week so distressed. I wish you had felt able to share your burden with me. Rosamond has hinted that the way in which I speak to you is, perhaps, less helpful or comforting than I may intend, and I am sorry that I have never invited your confidence in a way that you felt you could trust. I would only have you know that, if you should ever like to speak to me upon anything which troubles you, I would be happy to listen, and not...lecture."

A sudden rush of affection overwhelmed Kitty. She rose from her bed and went to her sister's. Mary was startled by the unexpected embrace, but soon relaxed.

"I am only thinking very seriously just now," Kitty replied, "about what is to be done next, and how I shall regard the world from now on. I do not think my solemnity will last, but you may rest assured that I have quite had my fill of flirting, and being wooed, and all that sort of thing, for the time being. I am sure I shall never be as serious as you would like, Mary, but it is good to know that you love me in spite of it."

"Of course I do," Mary replied, red-faced. "Though I am glad to hear that you are more willing, now, to devote your mind to more serious pursuits."

"Thank you," Kitty said, beaming at her. "And I love you, even if you are as somber as a churchyard, and a bluestocking besides; but I was glad to see you laughing with Robert Hart last night, and enjoying yourself even though you were in a ballroom."

Mary frowned at her, but there was no real ire in it. Kitty, laughing, returned to her own bed and flung herself down upon it.

"Anyway," she said, rolling over to look at Mary again, "now that my own romance has come to naught, and I have no interest in pursuing any others at the moment, I may turn my hand to helping you with _yours_."

"There is no romance to speak of," Mary replied, her accustomed irritation seeping into her tone, "for Robert and I are _not_ in love, as I have told you a dozen times," and Kitty grinned. It was good to hear Mary annoyed with her, rather than concerned and careful.

"That is what _you_ say," she singsonged, "but at any rate you have no choice in the matter, Mary, for Mamma will not be easy until at least one of us is married, and it does not now look as though I will be the first."

Mary harrumphed, and pulled her blankets over her. "Goodnight, Kitty."

Perhaps, Kitty thought, as she shut her eyes, the fact that the good things in the world were so rare, only served to make them more important.

Her last reflections, however, were not particularly philosophical in nature; they were not upon Mr. Price, or the events of the day, or the disorder of her mind, or even upon Mary and Robert. Instead she was thinking of Mr. Finch, and wondering how best to convince Rosamond of his manifold perfections—for, after all, it was the least she could do for him.


	18. Chapter 18

In the days that followed, Kitty found herself glad indeed that her engagement to Alexander Price had never been made public. However quiet and retiring he was in company, Mr. Finch had not hesitated in making known that gentleman's true disposition (she guessed he was helped along by his own four sisters, who were not much known for their discretion); before the end of the week, Miss Price's account of her brother's cruelty was on everybody's lips, embellished in some cases to include hushed references to actual crimes, and often accompanied by some personal evidence the speaker had of the gentleman's bad nature—some insult he had given, or debt he had failed to repay, or young lady to whom he had stood too close in an empty corridor.

It reminded Kitty a little of the public turnabout that had followed the news of Lydia's seduction, when everybody in Meryton, who had been so happy to welcome the amiable Mr. Wickham into their drawing-rooms and dining-rooms, suddenly declared that they had never liked him at all. This time, however, the Bennets were fortunately spared the distress of having their name in any way connected with the scandal. For her part, Kitty could not fully disbelieve _all _of the appalling stories of her once-betrothed. His behavior at the Assembly Rooms, let alone his final moments with her, had proven his character well enough.

Mrs. Bennet, though too prudent to make explicit her personal experience of Mr. Price's wickedness (or, rather, her daughter's personal experience)—for what would that do to Kitty's prospects?—was nonetheless among the most vocal in denouncing the gentleman as the worst sort of villain. "I believe he fancied Kitty, once," she said to Mrs. Carpenter, "but she would not have him; she was too clever to be taken in by his looks and his graces, and so was I, for that matter!"

"What a lucky escape," Mrs. Carpenter replied comfortably, safe in the knowledge that her own younger daughter was presently accepting the attentions of a much less infamous gentleman.

Mr. Price himself had, as Mr. Finch had advised, vanished entirely from Bath. Whether he had departed immediately after the unpleasant scene at Henry Street, or whether he had only made his escape once his unpopularity began to spread, was not known; but Kitty was glad to have him gone, in any case. She did not think she would have been able to bear it if he had continued to stay there, and she had been obliged to see him in company; in this way, it was perhaps fortunate that he was such a villain as to be driven from society, rather than merely a gentleman who had proven unsuitable but was yet welcome in polite company. But no; Mr. Price would have been barred from every drawing-room if his absence had not made it a moot point, and as many of the families presently living in Bath had friends or connections or even homes of their own in London, there was, as Mr. Finch had hinted, a fair chance of Mr. Price's infamy being known _there_, as well.

In the midst of all this outrage, Kitty was grateful for the quiet goodness of Rosamond Hart. Her friend would have been justified in reminding Kitty how she had warned her against Mr. Price even in the face of Kitty's obstinancy, and in boasting of her own astuteness, given the rumors that now swirled through Bath; and yet, upon their next meeting, Rose said nothing on the subject until Kitty herself, feeling as though the air ought to be cleared, tentatively ventured his name.

"Yes, I have heard some unpleasant things," Rose replied calmly. They were sitting at Hart House, enjoying cakes and cups of tea. "I cannot believe all of it, of course, but certainly I suppose he must not be the gentleman everyone seemed to think."

Kitty bit her lip. "I am glad I am not marrying him, after all."

Her friend smiled at her. "So am I."

"I cannot believe I was so deceived by him," she went on, for though Rosamond did not know that they had actually been formally engaged, Kitty nonetheless remembered (with a hot stab of embarrassment), declaring how much she adored him, and how she could never love another.

"Everyone was deceived by him," Rosamond said. "That is why everyone is now so eager to disclaim him."

Kitty hesitated. "I do not think that _you_ were deceived," she said at last. "Nor Mary. I ought to have listened to you both."

"It is easy to say so now," was the tranquil response, "but you could not have known the sort of man he was."

"I could have looked harder. It was only that he was so handsome, and amiable, and he said such kind things to me. I wanted so much for him to be as he seemed, and that was quite stupid of me. I am sure, if I had looked harder, I would have seen that he was not so perfect as I wished to believe."

"Perhaps; but there is no sense in regretting what cannot be undone. You know now the mistakes you have made, and you will know better for the next time."

"Yes," Kitty sighed, "if there is a 'next time.' I have quite lost my taste for flirting now. I do not think there is a gentleman alive to whom I would give a second glance."

"You are taking this all very hard," Rosamond said, with a little laugh. "But I think you are exceedingly wise," she added, "for there are a great many gentleman alive who do not deserve even a first glance, let alone a second."

There was a brief silence, as Rose took a sip from her teacup and Kitty lost herself momentarily in thought. She had never before considered quite how fortunate she was to have such a friend as Rosamond, but just now warm fondness was unfurling in her breast. It suddenly occurred to her that she would miss Rose rather a great deal when she left Bath.

She gave a little sigh, rousing herself from her reflections, and smiled at Rosamond. "Mamma will be very disappointed," she said, in a lighter tone. "It is less than a month till we go home to Longbourn, and neither Mary nor I am engaged. Perhaps you might tell your brother to speed things along, so Mamma is not _too _unhappy."

Rosamond laughed. "If I had any influence at all over him," she answered, "it would be my pleasure."

Talking of marriages reminded Kitty of her vow to speak to Rose on Mr. Finch's behalf, and she took a breath. She did not want Rose to know that she had ever been engaged to Mr. Price—not that she did not trust her friend's discretion, but it was simply too embarrassing—therefore, she could not relate the exact circumstances in which she had become so aware of Mr. Finch's valiant character. She would have to be subtle; this was not a skill which came naturally to her, and she had to think for a moment before proceeding.

"Did you enjoy yourself at the ball?" she asked at length.

"Oh, to be sure. I found the company very congenial; everyone was so happy to be dancing and enjoying themselves. I was sorry that I did not see more of you there."

Kitty wondered if Anne or Theodore had related to Rosamond just how Kitty had spent her evening. But it did not matter; Rosamond did not seem inclined to question her on her tears, if she was even aware that they had been shed, and at the moment there were more important matters to discuss.

"Mr. Finch tells me that you danced with him twice," Kitty said.

Perhaps it was not very subtle, but Rosamond only smiled. "I did," she affirmed. "He is a fine dancer."

"And you are such particular friends—so much in each others' confidence."

"We are friends to the perfect degree: enough that we can speak on any subject together, and be assured of an interesting discussion, and enjoy each others' confidence as you say—but not so intimate that we often grow annoyed with one another."

Kitty could not imagine Rosamond ever growing annoyed with anybody, or Mr. Finch doing so, for that matter. Though she had now seen each of them angry, such a petty thing as _annoyance_ seemed quite impossible. "I like Mr. Finch very much," she ventured.

"Indeed? I thought you told me you found him rather awkward."

"Oh—yes, but that was when I did not know him very well. I have seen him more since then, and talked with him, and I think—well, I still think him very awkward, but I do not mind it so much now. He is a very good sort of person, you know. Though I suppose you _do_ know," she added, with an awkward little laugh of her own, "or you would not esteem him so highly."

Rosamond was regarding her curiously. "I have always thought Mr. Finch a most worthy gentleman," she answered. "I am so fond of him. He may be reserved, but he has more real goodness in him than many of his more sociable peers."

"Always worth the trouble of making conversation," Kitty said, recalling what Rosamond had once said to her. Her friend smiled.

"Indeed."

"I think," Kitty said, hesitantly, not wishing to tip her hand too early, "that he is the sort of gentleman who might make any young lady a very worthy husband."

"Oh, undoubtedly," Rose concurred, giving her an inquisitive glance, which Kitty ignored.

"And of course," she added, "he is _very_ handsome. I do not think I have ever seen a handsomer gentleman. Do you not agree?"

"To be sure. He is one of those few gentlemen whose exterior may be said to match their interior."

Kitty was pleased by this, and by the fact that Rosamond had said she was 'so fond' of Mr. Finch. If anyone was to deserve such a paragon of a gentleman, she thought contentedly, it would be Rosamond, who was herself so good and amiable. "I know he is only a younger son," she said conversationally, "and not a viscount or anything like that; but I understand his living in Larkhall is a very good one, and I am sure any wife of his would live comfortably. I wonder if he has given any thought to the matter."

"Of taking a wife? I should imagine he has given it some thought, for he is of the age where gentlemen at least _begin_ to think of such things."

"Do you know if he has anyone particular in mind?" Kitty did her best to keep her tone quite casual, but there was an eagerness in her eyes which betrayed her.

"I could not say," Rosamond replied, glancing away. She did not blush, as a lesser maiden might have done, but the glance was telling enough, and Kitty thrilled inwardly.

"Well," she said with great satisfaction, thinking she had done enough for today (it would not do to be _too_ explicit), "I am sure that whomever she is, if she exists, she is the most fortunate young lady in Bath."

Rose met her eyes again, and smiled. "I am pleased you have come to like Mr. Finch, Kitty," she said. "You are both such good friends to me, and it makes me glad to know that you are friends to each other, as well."

Kitty had nothing to say to this, and merely smiled and looked down at her lap.

"At any rate," she said brightly, raising her head after a moment, "it seems too long since we had a wedding in Bath; someone ought to get married, if only so people can talk about something besides horrid Mr. Price. If it is not to be me, and I know it is not, then it ought to be Mary. Are you certain you could not talk to Robert?"

"I am certain it would be in vain," Rose replied, laughing.

"That is too bad. Then perhaps _you_ ought to get married, Rose, if only to provide him with an example."

Rosamond, to her surprise, _did_ blush this time, and averted her eyes; though it was only for a moment, and she recovered her composure admirably, Kitty knew she had seen it. "Even if I had received an offer," Rose said lightly, "I would not care for a wedding just now. I have always wanted to be married in the spring."

"Oh, to be sure," Kitty agreed. "Who would wish to be married in a coat and scarf, without even any fresh flowers on hand? I think spring weddings are the best kind, though I like summer weddings as well. Imagine being married in the summer, Rose, with a bouquet of—" she laughed—"roses."

Her friend wrinkled her nose. "Oh, no, not roses. I cannot abide them."

"No indeed? How silly of you!"

"It is strange, I know; but for so long everyone has assumed them to be my favored flower, and as a result I have rather grown to resent them. I suppose it is some perversity on my part.—You would look pretty with a bouquet of roses, Kitty, but I think I should like to have peonies or sweet peas."

Their conversation soon drifted into the realms of romantic imagination so common among young ladies, even ones so sensible as Rosamond Hart or so presently set against marriage as Katherine Bennet; and before long Mr. Price, and Mr. Finch, and any other gentlemen who might have cared to intrude as the subjects of their dialogue, were quite forgotten.

* * *

Another week passed, bringing them nearly to the middle of October. Kitty, to her disappointment, had no more opportunity to speak to Rosamond alone and so build upon her initial favorable discussion of Mr. Finch; every time she called, her friend seemed to be already engaged in entertaining either Mrs. Hart, or one of the Miss Finches, or Mr. Finch himself (a sight which warmed Kitty's heart) or, once, Lord Adlam (a sight which certainly did not).

At any rate, Kitty did not have as much opportunity as she would have wished for long visits at Hart House. The lateness of the hour—there was only a little more than a fortnight before they would leave Bath forever—had startled Mrs. Bennet into spending as much time as she could husband-hunting for her girls. Where once she had two daughters all-but-married, now she had none: Kitty's betrothal had proved a disaster, and Mrs. Bennet could find no hint that Mary and Robert had formed a similar arrangement.

Where Robert was concerned, Mrs. Bennet's hands were tied: it certainly would not do to try and shift Mary's focus onto someone else, for Robert's interest in her had been, to Mrs. Bennet's mind, a hard-won victory. She would merely have to wait, and hope that before long it would occur to the foolish young man that he was wasting time, and that Mary would not forever be comfortably within his reach. This was not a course of action which pleased her. She constantly did her best to cajole Mary into dropping hints, and behaving coyly, and dressing in Kitty's prettiest gowns, and employing all those other tricks which had ultimately secured Mrs. Bennet her own husband. It was to no avail; she had never met a girl so stubbornly modest and unromantic as her own daughter. That Mary was clearly growing annoyed with her advices, only served to feed her own displeasure at the situation.

But Kitty, Mrs. Bennet felt, could surely manage to secure an engagement or at least an attachment within a fortnight. When they had arrived in Bath, after all, Kitty had fancied herself in love with every gentleman she saw, and had danced every dance at every ball, and had flirted and giggled and charmed for all the world. Why should she not now, relieved of one suitor, merely find another? It had only taken her a week or two in Bath to fall in love with Mr. Price, and though the Season was now long ended, gentlemen were still plentiful.

To that end, Mrs. Bennet began seeking out the company of whatever eligible gentlemen she could:

Though she, like Kitty, acknowledged that Oliver Finch belonged heart and soul to Rose Hart, his elder brothers were yet unattached; and so they spent an evening at the large house on St. Stephen's Road (where, to Kitty's disappointment, they did not find the youngest Mr. Finch, for he was at home in Larkhall).

When that did not answer, Mrs. Bennet betook them to the Wolfes' for an evening of cards; but Charles Wolfe spent the entire evening staring hopelessly at Miss Turner, and Kitty did not appear to mind his inattention.

Finding the handsome Mr. Sanburne at a dinner-party hosted by the Fitzwilliams was an unexpected boon, and Mrs. Bennet was even more pleased to see him seated by Kitty at the table; but here they _did_ find Oliver Finch, who was seated to Kitty's right, and she spent the entire evening talking to him, despite her mother's meaningful gestures.

The Seabrooks hosted a private ball at their house in Queen Square, and here Kitty danced with Mr. Archer and Mr. Turner; but Mr. Archer stepped hard upon her toes, and Mr. Turner only wished to talk about hunting.

Even young Mr. Carpenter, Mrs. Bennet thought, might do very well; indeed that would be preferable, for his mother was such a particular friend of hers. But Kitty found him unbearably dull, and told her mother as much.

"Well, my dear," Mrs. Bennet exploded, "I do not know what you wish me to do. Are you certain you could not fall in love with _any_ of them?"

"I am certain, Mamma," Kitty said, sadly.

"This is unaccountable. Do you not remember, child, when we came to Bath, and you fancied _all_ of these gentlemen excellent matches for you? And yet now you tell me you do not like any of them?"

"They are all quite amiable," Kitty sighed, sounding rather miserable. "But I do not think I could marry any of them, and be happy."

Mrs. Bennet eyed her severely. "I hope, my girl, that you are not still pining for Mr. Price."

"Not at all," Kitty protested.

"I should hope not; he is not worth a second thought. But all of these gentlemen _are_ very amiable, and come from decent families and have good fortunes, and nobody has been telling any terrible stories about what _they_ get up to in London. And several of them are quite handsome, and you used to like them all very much. I cannot understand it. The wise thing to do, my love, would be to choose the one you like best and simply make up your mind to fall in love with him; for we leave Bath in less than a fortnight, now, and you know there is nobody worth your attention in Meryton, and your father may never let you out of Longbourn again. If you wish to marry, this is your best chance."

Kitty bit her lip, almost tearful, and looked away. "I am sorry, Mamma. I simply have not the taste for being in love anymore."

She _was_ sorry; for while it was one thing to tell Mary and Rosamond that she was abandoning her pursuit of love and romance, it was quite another to come face to face with the truth. She had half expected that, once she was again facing a handsome young gentleman across a dinner-table or dance-floor, all of the guardedness which Mr. Price had engendered in her would fall away, and she would again be happy to laugh, and flirt, and gaze at him (whoever he happened to be) through her eyelashes. She had not really thought that the attentions of a gentleman would ever leave her unmoved, or that their eloquent compliments would ever irritate her, or that she would ever be thankful that she was not a great beauty, who must endure such notice incessantly. Never before had she found gentlemen so uninteresting, and it concerned her.

She mentioned the problem to Mary one evening, as they were preparing for bed.

"I thought this was what you wanted," Mary said, confused. "Did you not tell me that you had no interest in falling in love?"

"Yes, but I did not think I really _meant_ it," Kitty replied, half-embarrassed and half-exasperated. "I mean, I suppose it is all for the best; but I am beginning to worry that perhaps I _am_ still pining for Mr. Price. I was very much in love with him, you know, before…" She trailed off uncertainly.

"I do not think you are pining for him," Mary said, resisting the urge to lecture her sister on the folly of saying things one does not mean. "From what I understand, though perhaps I am mistaken, the mention of him does not make you sad or regretful; you only ever seem angry when you talk about him."

"But how do we know that _that_ is not pining?"

Mary regarded her seriously. "If he returned and said he wished to marry you, would you agree?"

"Certainly not! Do not be vile, Mary."

"What if," Mary said, choosing her words with care, "what if he had never said such unkind things to you; what if Mr. Finch had not made you aware of his true nature—what if, indeed, his true nature was quite as he presented it? Would you, then, wish to marry him?"

Kitty thought for a long moment. It was not, really, a question she had asked herself. "I do not think so," she said, at last. "No. I would not. I did not tell you—or anyone—but I had made up my mind not to marry him even before I saw him that morning, or spoke to Mr. Finch; why, even when we danced at the Assembly Rooms that last night, I thought him dreadfully dull. And even if I had not seen—no. No. No, I would not marry him even if he were everything he seemed."

She had grasped, dimly, at this thought, but never before had it come to her so clearly, and she certainly had not said it aloud. To do so now gave her a startling wave of relief, and she smiled at her sister.

"That was a good question," she said.

Mary gave her a small smile in return. "Thank you. But, to return to the point: I do not think you are pining for him. I think you are only, as you told me—even if you did not mean it—uninterested in love and marriage at this time. And it is good, Katherine," she went on, her voice regaining its accustomed pontificating tone, "for I have never thought you truly ready for marriage. You seem to possess a very idealistic view of the married state, as I have said before, but I hope that this experience has relieved some of those notions, and made you more aware of the duties and difficulties that one must necessarily endure as a husband or wife."

"Oh, Lord, yes," Kitty said, pushing down her irritation with the lecture, for really Mary made a fair point. "I shall know, now, never to accept an offer from someone merely because I find him handsome."

"That certainly is progress," Mary said, drily, and Kitty laughed and hit her lightly with a pillow. The assault stunned Mary, who had never in her life engaged in any behavior that could be called playful; and the look of shock upon her face was so amusing that Kitty laughed some more, and did it again.

"But you know what I _mean_," she resumed, giggling, when Mary sniffed and refused to return the attack. "I shall only ever accept a proposal from a gentleman when I can be really, truly assured that he is decent and kind, and will not be horrid to me or anyone else."

"And when he has proven to you the depth of his mind," Mary added seriously, "and when you can affirm that he spends his time in good and useful employment, and when you have established that your views of the world are, if not matching, at least compatible."

"Yes, but I shall have to be in love with him, as well," Kitty said thoughtfully. "It used to be that that was the _only_ criteria, that and the handsomeness, but now we have a whole list. I suppose that is why I cannot care for any of the gentlemen Mamma wants me to like; I do not know any of them well enough to be in love, even if they are all handsome and amiable. Perhaps if I came to know them better—but we do not have time for _that_." She groaned and flung herself down upon her pillow. "I shall die an old maid, Mary."

"You shall not," Mary responded, smiling in spite of herself. "On the contrary, I am sure that, equipped with your new understanding of love and relationships, you are far better suited to making a good match than you ever were before."

Kitty looked up and smiled at her, rather touched.

"If one of us is to die an old maid," Mary added wryly, "it will be me," and Kitty laughed and shook her head.

"Not at all, for you have Robert, do you not? I am sure he will propose soon, and you will return to Hertfordshire as the soon-to-be-Mrs. Hart, if not the _actual_ Mrs. Hart."

Mary bit her lip. She had not told anyone of the agreement between herself and Robert, though Rosamond seemed perfectly aware of how matters stood; she supposed either Robert had told her, or Rosamond's sisterly intuition had made any disclosure unnecessary. But Kitty had been honest with her; and, if she were honest with herself, she rather wanted to share her news (even if it was not really _news_) with someone.

"Robert will not propose before we leave Bath," she said, quietly. "We have agreed upon that."

Kitty, startled, sat up and folded herself into a position of expectation. "You have _agreed_?" she asked, interested, for if she had ever expected anyone to have an _understanding_ with a gentleman, it would not be her older sister. Mary nodded, suddenly a little embarrassed.

"We have discussed the matter in detail," she said stiffly, "and have agreed that, while we would each prefer to marry the other over anyone else, neither of us is, at the moment, ready to be married."

"So you are engaged."

"Not engaged," Mary protested, blushing, "nothing so formal. I suppose you may say we are—attached—that is, we have acknowledged that our matrimonial interests lie only with each other. But for now we do not wish to act upon these interests, and we plan to wait until we are both ready to wed."

"How long will you wait?"

"A few months—a year—perhaps a few years. Until one of us informs the other that we should like to re-evaluate the state of our relationship."

"Lord!" Kitty laughed. "You make it all sound so orderly."

"We are fortunate enough to enjoy a relationship based upon honesty and transparency."

"Yes, but do you not think it rather dispassionate? You have not even said that you are in love with him."

"There is no need."

"But if you plan to marry him—"

Mary was blushing hotly now. "There is no need for such a romantic declaration; we each know perfectly well the feelings of the other. That is the advantage of such forthrightness. We know that we are well-suited to a life together, not only in terms of our values and our characters but in terms of what will make us happy. We do not need to—"

"Do you love him, Mary?" Kitty asked, grinning, her head cocked to one side. Mary, her face redder than she thought it had ever been, rolled her eyes and did her best to seem unconcerned.

"Really, Katherine, this is quite unnecessary."

"It is a simple question. I think if you are planning to marry a gentleman, however far into the future, you ought at _least_ be able to say that you are in love with him."

"There is no—"

"If you can't even say it to me," Kitty reasoned, "how will you ever say it to him? And I think it quite unfair to oblige your husband to go through life without ever knowing that you love him. You may call _that_ silly and romantic, but I think it perfectly essential."

Mary heaved a great sigh of annoyance. "I think you are missing the point, Kitty."

"I think _you_ are," Kitty retorted good-naturedly, "for it is one thing to approach marriage very sensibly and practically, and it is quite another to take all the passion out of it. Perhaps _I_ have been looking at it too romantically, but I think _you_ are regarding it too logically."

Her sister glared at her.

"Do you love him, Mary?" Kitty asked again, with an air of innocence.

There was a long pause, during which Mary would not quite meet her sister's eyes; and then, at last, ducking her head, she murmured, "Yes."

"I did not hear you."

"_Yes_," Mary repeated, irritated now, "yes, Kitty, I love him."

Kitty beamed at her. "There, now!" she cried. "Is that not much better? Now you have said it aloud, to yourself and to me, and now someday you will be able to say it to him without stammering or blushing or otherwise looking foolish. And, since I know now that you love him, I give you my permission to marry him, whenever it suits you both."

"I was not aware that I needed your permission," Mary muttered.

"Of course you do," Kitty replied carelessly. "One cannot marry if one's favorite sister does not approve of the gentleman."

"If that were the case, then you would never have accepted Mr. Price," Mary replied, but she regretted it the moment she said it, for Kitty's smile dropped and her eyes went wide. "Oh, Kitty," she said, feeling wretched. "I did not mean that."

Kitty gave a little shrug and a half-smile. "I don't mind," she said. "It is quite correct, anyway; I said so to Rose, that I should have listened to you and to her, and she said this means I shall know better for next time. And I _shall_, Mary," she added, looking very serious. "The next time I think myself in love with a gentleman—if ever it does happen again—I shall be sure to consult you. I think you are very good at seeing what I cannot: you did not like Mr. Wickham, and you did not like Mr. Price…and the only gentlemen in Bath that you _do_ like, that is, Mr. Finch and Robert Hart—I think they may be the only worthy gentlemen in the city. Single gentlemen," she corrected herself, for really she did like Theo Hart, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was so amiable.

Mary gave a little laugh. "There are probably plenty of other worthy gentlemen, but I have not met them, or am too exacting to see their virtues. Anyway I am sure I am not so reliable as you seem to think."

"That is true," Kitty conceded, "for you liked Mr. Collins. But you were very young and foolish then."

"I was not! I never—"

"And anyway he isn't _bad_," Kitty went on, ignoring her sister's protests; "he is merely tedious, and rather embarrassing in company. No, Mary, even with such evidence against you, I think you are far better than I am at choosing gentlemen to like. And so, if I ever fall in love again, I shall submit to your guidance, within reason. After all," she added mischeviously, "_you_ are the only one of us who knows what it means to be really, truly in love."

Mary hit her with the pillow this time, and Kitty was so startled that her sister had time to hit her again, and a very brief battle took place—much pleasanter, and punctuated by laughter, than any of their battles had been in the past.

* * *

The prospect of a dinner-party at Hart House pleased both of the Bennet sisters, Mary because she would see Robert and Kitty because she would see Rose (and see Mary and Robert together, which would surely be very amusing, given what she now knew). Mrs. Bennet was less enthusiastic, because Robert certainly would not propose during a family dinner-party, and because it was unlikely that there would be anyone in the company with whom Kitty might fall in love: the elder Mr. Hart was married, Robert belonged entirely to Mary, and Dr. Hart, while single and certainly genial, was rather older than Mrs. Bennet would have liked for a prospective son-in-law. Only the thought that the Harts might have invited some other friends, preferable eligible gentlemen, gave her any comfort.

In fact the Harts did invite three single gentlemen, although, to Kitty's mind, at least two of them were ineligible. Upon their arrival, the Henry Street family found both Mr. Finch and Lord Adlam in the sitting-room, where they were, to Kitty's astonishment, having an apparently friendly conversation together. (What poise was exhibited by Oliver Finch under such duress as must be caused by an interview with his rival!) Captain Finch, the middle brother, was the only other single gentleman present besides Robert; he was escorting his youngest sister, who was Juliet's age. Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam made up the rest of the party.

"There is Bertram Finch, at least," Mrs. Bennet whispered in Kitty's ear; "If you are seated by him, my dear, I beg you will make what you can of it. He is a second son, it is true, but he is a particular friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and is said to have excellent prospects."

Kitty had always found Captain Finch perfectly agreeable, but, as she by now expected, she could not manage to work up any interest in his excellent prospects.

It did not matter, at any rate, for Kitty was seated by Oliver instead of Bertram. This suited Kitty perfectly well, though she was distressed to see that the place by Rosamond, at the farther end of the table, was claimed by Lord Adlam. This she thought rather cruel of her friend, though she knew it could not be intentional; was poor Mr. Finch not only to be seated so far from his dearest love, but also to watch helplessly as the unworthy viscount wooed her? She regarded them disapprovingly. Rose ought not smile so broadly, she thought, nor should the viscount look so obviously pleased by the situation. _That_ was bad form.

"How good of Lord Adlam to join us here in Widcombe," she remarked rather bitterly, turning to Mr. Finch. He looked at her with surprise.

"I understand he is a rather frequent visitor to Hart House."

"Is he?" Kitty asked, with faux sweetness. "It is rather far from the Royal Crescent, is it not?"

"Not such a difficult distance."

"I have never had the honor of talking much with his Lordship," Kitty said, taking care to keep her voice low, "and so I cannot pretend to have an opinion of him."

Mr. Finch's eyebrows were nearly to his hairline. "I think him very good-natured," he replied carefully.

"Do you?" Kitty's heart melted. "How charitable of you, Mr. Finch!"

"You see, Oliver?" Theo Hart put in, from Oliver's other side. "Now that you are officially a man of the cloth, any little act of yours may be taken as the highest charity. I told you it would be so. You can do no wrong, anymore."

Oliver Finch's lips twitched. "It seems so, Theodore."

"Though it would be better if you were a soldier, like your brother; then you would be not eternally charitable, but eternally dashing."

"Are you a friend of his Lordship, Mr. Hart?" Kitty asked, leaning forward to look at Theodore.

"I believe I would count myself as such," Theo replied, "for he has certainly spent enough time courting my goodwill—two Seasons, is it now, Robert?"

"And a little more," Robert agreed, looking up from his conversation with Mary, "for he has stayed several months past the Season this year."

"So let us make that three years."

"Your arithmetic is incorrect."

"I am not worried about it.—Three years of courting my goodwill, Miss Katherine, certainly makes him my friend. Though I wonder, sometimes, if he has some ulterior motive in seeking my approval." He nodded to the other end of the table, where Rosamond was laughing, her hand pressed lightly to her mouth. She looked very fetching, and Lord Adlam did not appear unmoved by the sight. Kitty bit her lip.

"He is a very decent fellow," Robert remarked.

"Yes, but he will need some training up; for he has only ever had sisters, you know, Robert, and so we will need to show him what it means to have brothers. He will have to stop being so polite to us, for one thing."

"Oh, stop," Kitty gasped, unable to look at Mr. Finch. "You speak as if everything is quite certain."

"She is right, my dear," Anne Hart interjected, smiling at Kitty. "Let us talk of something else."

Theo concurred, and asked Robert and Mary about the last concert they had attended, and the conversation moved onto more general topics; though Kitty and Oliver were both quite silent. Kitty dared a glance at him. He was looking stonily at his plate, lifting measured forkfuls to his mouth without expression. Her heart sank. She hoped she was not too late to sway Rosamond's opinion—for how _then_ would she repay Mr. Finch for the service he had done her? They ate in dull silence, plunged into dissatisfaction with the evening, while everyone else around them talked cheerfully. At length, however, Mr. Finch endeavored to break the ice.

"Miss Katherine," he said, in a low voice, "I wish to ask how you are feeling since—since our last meeting."

"Oh," Kitty said, surprised and pleased, "I am very well, Mr. Finch. I was not at first, but now everything is much better."

"I am glad to hear it."

"It helps, you know," she added softly, "to hear everyone else speaking so ill of him. I know as a clergyman you will say it should not help, but it does."

Mr. Finch smiled briefly. "As a clergyman, perhaps I should say so; but as a person who lives in the world, I may agree that it is often satisfying to hear justly abused the object of one's aversion."

"I believe I have you to thank for that satisfaction," Kitty said, as quietly as she could.

"It was no trouble, Miss Katherine."

"I promise I shall repay you." And she _would_, she thought with grim determination. Surely, if she told Rosamond the complete story of Mr. Finch's heroism, her friend could not then prefer Lord Adlam, even if she thought Kitty a fool for ever putting herself in such a situation.

"That is not necessary. I consider it among the duties of—friendship." The gentleman was blushing very hotly. "If I may presume to call myself your friend."

"Oh, Mr. Finch," Kitty said warmly, "of course we are friends. Did I not say so, that day? I think rescuing—that is," she corrected herself, suddenly aware that they were not alone, "I think what you have done for me, is quite equal to three years of courting my goodwill. Do you not agree?"

"I am thankful to have been spared that effort."

Kitty giggled. "Mr. Finch," she said, "I am not sure if you know, but it is only a fortnight now, or perhaps a little less, before I must go home to Hertfordshire. Did you know that?"

"I did not, Miss Katherine."

"Well, it is true; and do you remember at the ball, when you said you would write to me so I could tell you if you were any good at it? I think you were only joking then, but I think I would truly like it very much if you were to write to me at Longbourn."

Mr. Finch was smiling at her. "I would be glad to do so, if it would really be agreeable to you."

"_Most_ agreeable," she assured him. "I have never had a correspondent before—well, I suppose I have, but only my sisters. I think, if I had a friend to write to, in such a place as Bath, that I would be much more faithful about writing when I should. There is nothing else to do at home, anyway," she added, a little glumly.

"Will you miss Bath very much, when you go?"

"Oh, to be sure. I have enjoyed myself here as I never do at home. There are more places to go, and things to do, and of course so many more people to see. I have such excellent friends here: Rose, and Juliet, and their brothers, and you, and your sisters, and so many others. I have friends at home, too, of course, but—it will not be the same."

"I suppose not."

"At least, when I read your letters, I may feel as if some part of me is still in Bath, going to the Assembly Rooms and the Pump-Rooms and so on."

He gave a little laugh. "I fear you are grossly overestimating my social schedule. I am sure I do not spend nearly enough times in the public rooms to satisfy you. I will be careful not to write letters of sermons, as you have requested, but several of them may very well be _about_ sermons, for that is my employment. I apologize in advance."

"Good and useful employment," Kitty murmured, not really meaning to, and not sure why she did. He blinked at her.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, it is nothing," she replied, blushing a little. "Only something Mary was saying. Well, I will forgive you talking about your work, if you promise not to forget to include _some_ news, and to tell me all about the balls and assemblies you _do_ attend."

"I will make it my first object. I am looking forward to this," he said, rather shyly.

Kitty immediately felt very fond of him. She sent another glance down the table. How could Rose be so blind to what was before her?

After the meal had ended and the ladies and gentlemen had separated—the ladies to the sitting-room and the gentlemen to Dr. Hart's study—Kitty made a beeline for Rosamond's side. Her friend, eyes sparkling, was engaged in a quiet conversation with Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, but gladly made her excuses and stood to take a turn with Kitty.

"I am so glad you could come tonight," Rose sighed happily, tucking her arm through Kitty's. "I have not seen enough of you lately."

"I must speak with you," Kitty said, doing her best not to sound _too_ urgent, for she did not want to alarm her friend, but hoping nonetheless that she sounded sure of herself.

"Why, of course." Rosamond turned to her.

Having gained Rose's attention, Kitty was rather stymied. She did not know how exactly to proceed. "I think," she began, slowly, "that there is something you may like to know, before you—make any decisions."

She hoped this was clear enough; but it did not seem to be, for Rose's brow furrowed and she did not respond.

"Mr. Finch is the most excellent gentlemen I have ever met," Kitty burst out, and then immediately blanched, remembering the company. Fortunately, Miss Finch was seated on the other side of the room with Juliet.

"Why, Kitty," Rose laughed, "this was not what I expected."

"I know you are his friend, but I do not think you can be entirely aware of how good he is," Kitty persisted, though at a lower volume. "He has done something for me which—"

"Rose," Mrs. Fitzwilliam called, "won't you play for us?"

Several of the other ladies immediately seconded the appeal, and Rosamond, with an apologetic smile to Kitty, was soon cajoled into taking the seat at the pianoforte. Kitty, disappointed, sank onto the settee.

Rosamond played very well. Kitty had known this before, for Rose had played once or twice when they were at Pemberley, but she had forgotten how talented her friend truly was. The song was beautiful and liquid, and Rose's fingers moved expertly over the keys; yet all Kitty wished was for it to end, so she could finish their conversation and so do Mr. Finch the good turn he deserved.

Once the first song had ended, however, Rosamond was persuaded by her friends to begin another; upon finishing that, she offered the seat to Mary, who took it with pleasure, the audience sufficiently small and familiar to heighten her eagerness, rather than her nerves. Kitty knew Rose well enough to know that her friend would not speak during a song (even though they were only in a sitting-room and not in a grand concert hall, she thought with some annoyance). Mary, too, played a second song, and then, indulging her vanity perhaps a trifle too much, a third; and once that had ended, the gentlemen came in to join them, and Rosamond's attention was claimed by her other guests, and Kitty's opportunity was lost.

Well, she thought resolutely, it only meant she would have to try again.

Mary was pleased when, as the gentlemen entered the sitting-room, Robert immediately sought her out and took the seat beside her on the piano-bench. Their conversation at dinner had been very general, frequently interrupted by the people seated around them, and she was glad to have some time alone with him. "So that _was_ your playing I heard as we came down the hall," he said, smiling at her. "I knew it was not my sister, but I have never heard you play, before, so I could not be certain."

"You must have heard me play," Mary objected. "Why, that has long been my primary object in coming to Hart House."

"Yes, but I am rarely here when you arrive; and by the time I join you, if I am able to do so, you have usually progressed to the 'conversation with Rosamond' stage of your practice—a crucial stage, I am sure."

"Most crucial," Mary agreed, smiling. She had expected to feel rather awkward in his company, given her discussion with Kitty, but was pleased to find that it was not so. And indeed nothing had really changed, she reflected with satisfaction. It was only her awareness of the situation which had expanded, and in a most positive direction. "But if indeed this is the first time you have heard me play," she went on, rather shyly, "I should like to know your opinion."

"I think your practices have served you well," he replied, "or else you have a natural talent; I cannot say. And you seem to appreciate the song, which may not be technically helpful but is certainly enjoyable to hear."

Mary flushed with pleasure, running her fingers absently over the silent keys. "That is more the case since I have come to Bath," she admitted. "When I first began to play, I used to think only of technical proficiency; but since we have been going to concerts, and I have seen firsthand how much a passion for the art of the performance may help one to develop one's skills, I have done my best to focus as much upon the beauty of the music as upon the technical aspects."

"I think that is key, in developing any craft or skill: one must be able to enjoy oneself, or the activity is fruitless."

"I would have disagreed with you most strongly, once," Mary said thoughtfully. "But now I begin to think that the idea has merit. Certainly, one may be more inclined to diligence when one enjoys the practice—and even more so when one has been able to witness the love of the craft which is possessed by true artisans. I have been fortunate enough to have several such opportunities, which is down to your own generosity, and that of your family."

"Well, I am glad that you have been able to build your craft," Robert said, "and I am glad of any part my family and I may have had in your doing so. I shall miss sitting with you at concerts."

Mary looked at him with surprise. "I am sure that is not so. My presence at your side can make little material difference; it is not as though we spend the time engaged in conversation."

"I suppose you are right. Well, then, I shall not miss sitting with you at concerts; but I shall miss walking with you in the intervals and after the performance has ended, and hearing you talk about how well you enjoyed it. You are always more animated, then, than at any other time. It makes me happy to see."

He turned to her, and their eyes met. For the moment everything seemed very quiet, and Mary's heart began to beat faster without her knowing why. There was a mad instant in which she thought he might lean forward—

But Robert glanced away, and Mary was suddenly quite aware that they were surrounded by friends and family and the gentle murmur of conversation. She sat back, red-faced, and glanced over her shoulder. Kitty, sitting across the room with Juliet and the two Finch brothers, was grinning at her; Mary dared not look at her mother, and hoped Robert did not, either.

"At any rate, we need not say our goodbyes just now," Robert was saying, with studied carelessness. "There is still time before you leave Bath."

"Indeed," Mary agreed, attempting to match his tone. "And, of course, once I am at home, you may write to me."

"That I certainly shall. And who is to say that you will never come to Bath again? Rose will be sure to invite you to stay at Hart House, or wherever she may be living in the future."

"I am not certain my father would give his consent."

"No indeed? Then we shall all be obliged to descend upon you in Hertfordshire. I hope you will not mind."

The thought in fact made her smile a little. "We should be glad to have you all at Longbourn, if you would not mind traveling so far."

He snorted. "_I _would not mind it; you know very well how tired I am of Bath. And I am sure Rose would not mind it either, for she has always wished to see more of the world. I cannot speak for the others. Anyway it is sure we will meet again, whatever contrivances we may have to employ."

"We _must_ meet again, at least once," Mary said, hesitantly, her voice low. "Do you remember—"

Robert met her eyes seriously. "Of course I do. You will let me know, will you not, if your feelings change?"

"Only if you promise the same."

"I do."

This seemed to be all they could manage for the moment, and they both turned away from each other, blushing.

"But now we are speaking again as if it is our last meeting," Robert said. "Let us talk of something else. What have you been reading lately?"

Mary told him, and a new conversation was begun, which had nothing to do with marriage or love or anything of the sort.

This lasted until the Fitzwilliams stood to took their leave, and everyone else, exclaiming with real surprise at the lateness of the hour, followed suit. The Bennets were among the last to leave, and bid their hosts a very fond farewell as they pulled on their coats and gloves in the vestibule. Kitty saw, with great displeasure, that Lord Adlam had not yet even put on his coat, or given any other sign that he was ready to leave; it seemed that he had taken it upon himself to remain even after everyone else had gone, and she wondered at his rudeness in doing so.

* * *

It was cold outside, and so the family was glad to climb into the coach—only slightly warmer—and shut the doors against the night wind. The ride home to Henry Street was not long, and the horses trotted quickly through the dark city streets, allowing the passengers brief glimpses into brightly-lit houses as they passed by. Every scene they passed seemed warm and genial and intimate: families sitting around dining-tables, children kneeling in window seats, even one house in which a few young couples were dancing and laughing together as some unseen musician played a reel.

The sights lit, in Kitty, a flame of love for Bath, and a startling, very real sadness at the prospect of leaving it behind forever. In Mary, however, the momentary visions of these happy lives made her suddenly nostalgic for Longbourn and Hertfordshire, and all the comforts of home, which had for several weeks been far from her mind.

Mrs. Bennet was not so thoughtful as her daughters. "Well, my girls," she sighed, "at least it was an enjoyable evening, if not a particularly productive one. I am sorry you were not seated with Captain Finch, Kitty. His brother can be no use to you."

"It is all right," Kitty replied, tearing her gaze from the window. "Mr. Finch is amiable, at least."

Mrs. Bennet sniffed, as though not quite in agreement with this, and turned to Mary. "And you, my dear," she said, rather frostily, "I know I can expect no news from _you_. I hope you enjoyed the company of your friend, for it seems _that_ is all he will ever be."

"We are more than friends, Mamma," Mary replied absently, without meaning to. She was remembering her conversation with Robert at the Assembly Rooms, and the conversation with Kitty which was now only a few days ago; certainly it was not entirely accurate to refer to Robert as merely her _friend_.

Mrs. Bennet, her frosty manner forgotten, gave a gasp of delight. Kitty's head swung around and she stared at her sister, half-gleeful and half-astonished at Mary's candor.

"_More_ than friends, my dear?" Mrs. Bennet repeated, with great significance in her tone.

"Yes," Mary replied, and then, realizing what inferences her mother must be drawing, turned hurriedly and did her best to correct the misinterpretation. "That is—I should not say that we are so much as—"

But her mother was not listening. "How long I have waited to hear you say so, my love!" she crowed. "You do not know what a trial it has been for my poor nerves! I thought, back in September, that there was something—but then I could not find any further hint of it, and so I was quite prepared to give up entirely, my dear—but _this_! _More_ than friends! And indeed you two did sit rather close tonight, my love, which I thought rather unbecoming at the time but _now_, of course, it is all to the good! Why, my Mary has formed an attachment! I shall have another daughter married before the new year!"

"Probably not so soon," Mary interjected, helplessly.

"Well, before the spring, then. Do you think we ought to invite him to Pemberley for Christmas? But no, he will probably want to be at home with his own family. _That_ will be something for you to discuss, when you are married, for his family are all very pleasant but certainly Christmas at Hart House cannot be nearly so agreeable as Christmas at Pemberley.—But of course you have some time before you must decide such things. Did you know of this, Kitty my love?"

"Well, I—" Kitty blushed, and looked wide-eyed at Mary, uncertain what her sister wished her to say. Mrs. Bennet took her hesitation as assent.

"You _did_! Why did you not tell me, child? But I suppose you were saving it as a surprise, and indeed it is a lovely one! Oh, my dear! I must say I was beginning to think it would never happen; and now here you are! More than friends! And what fine timing, coming so soon on the heels of Kitty's disappointment!—Forgive me, Kitty dear, I do not wish to upset you. But really this is such wonderful news, when we have all been so low of late! Oh, Mary, how happy you have made me!"

Mary gaped feebly at her. She knew, of course, that she ought to disabuse her mother of the notion that she was actually _engaged_, for it was unfair to everyone involved. She had always preached honesty and levelheadedness; and now, when she had an opportunity to do as she advised others to do, she faltered. For shame! she scolded herself inwardly.

But truly—Mrs. Bennet _had_ been low of late, angered by Mr. Price's betrayal and frustrated by Kitty's failure to find another suitor and, of course, by Robert's failure to propose. This was the happiest she had looked in nearly two weeks, and Mary, her feelings as a daughter momentarily overruling her feelings as a reasonable person, could not bring herself to disappoint her mother a second time.

And what did it matter? They were to leave Bath soon, and Mrs. Bennet would be happy for a fortnight. Certainly, once they were home at Longbourn, Mary could invent some excuse for breaking off the engagement, or at least for postponing the wedding until the thought of being married stopped making her stomach twist in fretful knots. And they _were_ engaged, in essence, she told herself. Simply because they had not said so (had, in fact, said the opposite, but she ignored this) did not mean it was not true. Robert was the only gentleman she could ever imagine marrying. What was that, if not basically an engagement?

"I am glad you are happy, Mamma," she said, weakly.

Mrs. Bennet's happiness manifested itself in rapid, elated chatter, which carried them all the way home to Henry Street.


	19. Chapter 19

Though she would have liked to call upon Rosamond the next day, Kitty was disappointed to find that it was quite impossible. The day of their departure was growing ever nearer—a little more than a week, now—and Mrs. Bennet had desperately redoubled her efforts to find Kitty a suitor, and so it seemed as though the family's every moment was spoken for. Their mornings were spent making the usual round of calls to families boasting single sons; their afternoons were spent in the Pump Room; they took tea at Sally Lunn's or some other fashionable little shop; they dined out and spent their evenings in company, until at last the hour came for them to pile into the carriage and hasten home to bed, only to wake and do it all again on the following morning.

It was very tiring; and though it was exactly what the Kitty of a few months ago would have imagined as a most charming way of spending one's time in Bath, the Kitty of the present day could not help being a little irritated at her mother's efforts.

Mary was, naturally, even less enthused with the increase in the family's social schedule, but now there was an added element of embarrassment to be found at every gathering. Her mother had never been exactly discreet; yet Mary longed for the time when Mrs. Bennet had confined her eager conjectures to an audience of particular friends, or at least friendly acquaintances. Now Mrs. Bennet loudly introduced her at every assembly as "My elder daughter, Miss Bennet—though of course she will not likely bear _that_ name for very much longer!" and, upon the natural inquiry which followed, she gleefully admitted that _Hart_ would soon take the place of _Bennet_. Mary counted it as good fortune that the Harts themselves had not been present at any of these troublesome gatherings.

Yet though Mary had once found Bath's small size to be rather comforting—certainly less overwhelming than a great metropolis—she now found it greatly inconvenient, as Rosamond, on a rare afternoon when Mary was able to slip away to Hart House, greeted her cheerfully with "I understand I am to embrace you as a sister-in-law."

Mary flushed very red, and could not quite meet her friend's eyes. "I had hoped that rumor had not reached your ears."

"Then it is a rumor?"

"You know it is," Mary muttered. "I am sure you would be the first to know if matters between your brother and I had changed."

"I am sure I would," Rosamond agreed placidly, "but I wished to hear you confirm it. You are greatly outnumbered, I am afraid; though you tell me that it is not true, Mrs. Carpenter and half a dozen others have most vehemently assured me otherwise. They inform me that I am to be a bridesmaid before Christmas."

Mary gave a little groan. "I suppose I am fortunate, that we are leaving Bath before long. I am sure everyone will forget about me, and hopefully about this absurd rumor as well."

"'Absurd' is rather strong, is it not?"

"At the present time," Mary maintained, "any rumor of my marriage can only be absurd. I cannot begin to picture myself as a bride, much less as a wife or" (she gave a little shudder) "as a mother; and though you know how I esteem your brother, and how I think him the most intelligent and sensible gentleman of my acquaintance—"

"We need not go so deeply into that," Rosamond interjected, laughing. "I cannot bear to hear my brothers well spoken of. Anne takes great delight in listing all of Theo's virtues for my benefit, and it always gives me a head-ache."

"At any rate," Mary said, "you know how matters stand, and I imagine you know better than I do when the situation will change, for you always seem to know such things."

"You overestimate my powers of perception."

"I am not convinced that that is the case," Mary replied, with a small smile.

Rosamond met Mary's smile with one of her own, and did not reply. They sat in comfortable silence for a long moment.

"Well," Rosamond said at last, taking a sip from her teacup, "I shall look forward to the day when I _may_ call you my sister, whether it is two months from now, or ten years."

"Thank you." Mary's heart lifted.

There was another companionable silence.

"I imagine," Mary said at last, blushing faintly, "that we shall not have much further opportunity, after this, to speak alone together; and so I shall take this moment to tell you how very much I have enjoyed the time we have spent together. You are the kindest friend I could have wished for, and separation from you will be among the most painful aspects of my departure from Bath."

"Then let our correspondence ease the pain however it might; and anyway, I am very confident that you will come to Bath again before another year passes."

"That is not at all likely," Mary protested sadly.

"You do not understand, my dear Mary," Rosamond said, with an elfin smile. "Your presence will certainly be required, whatever your father or mother might say."

"Required by whom?"

"By myself, of course. You may spend your autumn at Longbourn and your Christmas at Pemberley, as you please, but do plan on returning to Bath in the spring."

Mary opened her mouth to press her friend further, but at that moment the door to the sitting-room opened and Robert came in. "Oh, hello," he said, rather awkwardly, regarding the two young ladies.

His sister rose from her chair. "I suppose I ought to invent some tactful excuse," she said, "and thus discreetly take my leave; but truly I do not think there is any point. I shall leave you two alone. Good day, Mary; I am sure we will meet again before you leave."

And with another curious smile over her shoulder, she swept out of the room. Mary watched her go, brow furrowed.

"Rosamond is in high spirits today, it seems," she remarked to Robert.

"Yes, is it not annoying?" He took the chair which his twin had vacated, and took a sip from her teacup. "I did not know you were coming to call today, or I should have finished my work sooner."

"It was not a planned visit. It was only by great good fortune that I was able to slip away from Henry Street after breakfast, or I should have been obliged to spend the day in the Pump Room again. As it is I am obliged to dine with the Fords tonight, for they have an unmarried son.—Not for my sake," she added hurriedly, at Robert's glance. "Mamma is determined to see Kitty engaged before we leave."

"And is she likely to succeed?"

"Certainly not. To secure an engagement, within such a short time, is not only unfeasible but highly imprudent; a week is not enough time to know a man's character and temperament to any acceptable degree. Besides which, Kitty herself is, thankfully, opposed to the scheme—she begins to say that she will never marry, which naturally causes my mother great distress."

Robert nodded, though his expression was rather preoccupied. Mary spoke no further, uncertain of his present humor.

"Mary," he began hesitantly, after a long pause, "has there been some miscommunication between us?"

"No, I do not think so."

"No indeed? Twice this week I have been offered very sincere congratulations by people of my acquaintance, though I was not aware I had done anything to deserve it."

Mary flushed very red. Of course, she thought, if the rumor had reached Rosamond, it must surely have reached her brother. The thought had not even occurred to her.

"I have no desire to embarrass you," Robert said earnestly, seeing her blush. "It is only that I should like to have everything clear between us."

"I understand; and I apologize for any awkwardness which my carelessness may have caused for you. I am afraid that I made some small hint of our—understanding—to my mother, and she wholly mistook my meaning. I am sorry, Robert."

"There is no need for an apology."

"Indeed there is, for I ought to have corrected the misinterpretation, and did not. It was a failing on my part, and I shall endeavor to correct it."

Robert said nothing, but smiled at her, and Mary took this to mean that the conversation was ended. They sat quietly for a long moment, though it was not uncomfortable.

"What do you think you will do, when you return to Hertfordshire?" Robert asked at length, breaking the silence. Mary glanced at him.

"What I have always done, I imagine. You know very well my opinions on the subject of leisure: I think spare time ought to be occupied usefully, when one is possessed of it, and so I shall return to my books and my daily practice. I also have hopes of enjoying some very fine autumn days, when I may walk into Meryton and through the fields and woods around Longbourn. I am looking forward to it with great anticipation."

"It all sounds agreeably pastoral."

Mary smiled. "Indeed; and that is what I like best, of course."

"And are you glad you have come to Bath, though you never desired to do so?"

"Oh, yes," she responded, with Kitty-esque warmth. Robert's eyes widened, and she composed herself with a little embarrassment. "That is—while I cannot claim to _love_ the city, as I love Longbourn and Meryton, and while I yet find its frivolity most distasteful, I have nonetheless managed to enjoy myself throughout my time here."

Robert nodded thoughtfully.

"Most especially," Mary ventured, her face hot, "with regards to yourself and the members of your family. I have just finished telling Rosamond how greatly I appreciate her friendship; and of course, Robert, you know my feelings for you, and can infer the pain I will feel upon leaving your company. I do not think—indeed, I _know_ that my stay in Bath would not have been nearly so pleasurable nor so instructive, had I not made your acquaintance."

"And you would not have made my acquaintance," he mused, "had you not met Rose and Theo when you were at Pemberley in the autumn; and you would not have met them, if Theo and Anne had not happened to fall in love and marry; and they would not have done so, had Lady Catherine de Bourgh not brought Anne to stay the Season before last, and enlisted my father as her physician. And I imagine there is some peculiar sequence of events leading up to her Ladyship's decision to do so. Is it not strange, how our lives are all so linked by coincidence?"

"Coincidence," Mary said, her face very red indeed, "or Fate, as some may call it," and Robert laughed.

"Nay, I shall not allow that; you begin to sound like one of those novels which are too trite and silly even for my sisters to enjoy. I expected better of you, Mary. Have you no extensive theory at hand on the nature of Life and Providence, as laid out by Mr. Fordyce or one of his colleagues?"

"It has been pointed out to me," Mary replied rather stiffly, "that Mr. Fordyce and his colleagues may not be the authorities which I had heretofore considered them."

"Did Rose tell you that? Yes, I am sure she did—those words have her stamp all over them. I hope she was not unkind."

"She was very forthright."

"That is easily believable." He grinned at her. "I am sure that is a Hart family characteristic which it will not be painful to leave behind."

"Quite the contrary," Mary answered. "I have grown accustomed to receiving polite criticisms of my follies on a fairly regular basis. In Hertfordshire I may revert to a worse version of myself, led to complacency by less candid company; and you may be disgusted with me at our next meeting, and decide your interests lie elsewhere after all."

Robert gave a surprised laugh, and looked at her with wide eyes. "That, I am sure, is an impossibility. On my part, at least," he added hastily; "_you_ may well find somebody who suits you better."

Mary thought this very gracious of him, for she was certain that if one of them were to beg off from their arrangement, it would be Robert. But she did not say so—it would only lead to another awkward conversation which would reaffirm the claims and promises which they had both already made, with no further object than her own selfish comfort. For now, she thought, unless and until Robert said otherwise, she would simply trust that they would be together one day, when it suited them both.

"What will you do, once we are gone from Bath?" she asked, changing the subject.

He raised an eyebrow at her, looking for a moment very much like his brother. "You seem to think much of the effect which your presence here has had upon my daily life."

"There," Mary replied drily, "that is the candor which I shall sorely miss."

Robert grinned. "I am only teasing, Mary. But indeed it will be rather quieter once your family has gone. Certainly I shall remain in Bath for another few months and work under my father, and then I will go away to school and take my degree, which will use up another two years at least."

"And when you have completed your training?"

"Then I will be a physician, and you may not address me as Mr. Hart anymore. I will be very particular upon being called _Dr._ Hart."

"I do not address you as 'Mr. Hart' now," Mary reminded him, smiling.

"No, I suppose you do not."

"Where will you be at study?"

He glanced at her. "Have I not said? I have been granted a place at St. Thomas's. It will be very different, I think, from life in Bath; at last I will be obliged to treat ailments besides gout and nervous exhaustion."

"You will learn a great deal, I imagine."

"That is the object."

"And," Mary added, with some distaste, "you will be given that great opportunity which all young people seem to covet, of making your fortune in London."

Robert gave a little laugh. "You speak as though _you_ are not a young person."

"At times," Mary confessed, "I do not think myself one."

Their conversation continued along these agreeable lines for a little while longer, until Mary was obliged to admit that she would surely be missed by her mother, and Robert offered to walk with her up to Henry Street.

* * *

As their stay in Bath drew nearer its end, the days seemed to pass more and more quickly. Soon there was no further question of their being in company all the day; Mrs. Bennet was obliged to admit defeat where Kitty was concerned, and only hope that there would be some influx of handsome new neighbors in Meryton when they returned home.

The hours which had once been so pleasurably (for the most part) spent in the public rooms and the drawing-rooms of friends and acquaintances, were now taken up with arrangements for their journey to Longbourn. Mr. Bennet had taken it upon himself to hire the carriages; but the ladies were left to their own devices with regard to packing their trunks and finding room for the various purchases which they had made, as is so often the case, without thought to the necessity of somehow transporting them home.

In addition to these ordinary travelers' frustrations, there were final calls to be paid to all of their most intimate friends and acquaintances, and the usual promises to be made: of lively correspondence and lengthy visits in coming seasons—though the less generous tended to make this promise with a slightly sardonic lift of the eyebrow, as though suggesting that it would be quite excessive for a resident of Bath to ever purposely make a journey to the wilds of Hertfordshire. Mrs. Bennet, so as to ward off any disdain, began hinting that they would perhaps stay the next Season in London, and offered gracious hopes that she would meet her Bath friends at Almack's or some other fashionable place, knowing full well that it was quite out of the question for most of them (and, of course, that Mr. Bennet would never agree to such a scheme).

The Fitzwilliams bid them a cheerful farewell, aware that they would likely meet again over the winter, when Colonel Fitzwilliam and his parents and brother usually came to stay at Pemberley for a fortnight or so. They all spent a very happy hour in the sitting room at James Street, making conjectures over the growth of little Sophia, and expressing their mutual eagerness to see her (and her parents, of course) once again.

Their visit to the Finches' house on St. Stephen's Road was a noisy one, as the entire family had gathered to say good-bye. The Miss Finches all promised Kitty that they would write very faithfully, and let her know everything that happened in Bath, and all of the scandals and rumors which made the city so interesting. She thanked them amiably, for she knew that their offer was a sincere one and well-meant; but in fact there was only one correspondent in the family for whom she truly cared. Oliver Finch was quiet at this last meeting, drowned out for the most part by his more outspoken brothers and sisters; but their eyes met more than once, and each time they shared a smile.

Hart House was their last port of call, on the morning before they were to leave. Mrs. Bennet, supposing with unusual tact that this parting would be the most painful for her daughters, had purposely put it off as long as possible. Kitty, who had not had an opportunity of speaking to Rosamond since the dinner party, would have liked to have spent all their mornings at Hart House, and thus do all she could on Mr. Finch's behalf before she was obliged to go away from Bath and leave the diffident gentleman to his own devices.

As they were welcomed into the pleasant sitting room, however, she discovered that his own devices would certainly not be enough to help him any longer. All of the Harts were present—and Lord Adlam as well, smiling for all the world. The gentleman's excellent humor was swiftly explained.

"My dear girl!" Mrs. Bennet crowed, embracing Miss Hart with motherly fondness. "How wonderful, how truly wonderful! _I_ never had any idea—you have kept it all very quiet, my dear! Indeed I rather thought your heart lay elsewhere; but really this is much better than I had expected! Of course you have my congratulations, and Mr. Bennet's as well no doubt, and the girls', though I am sure they will want to say so themselves!"

Mary, smiling, immediately offered her congratulations to her friend; but Kitty was silent.

The news of the engagement, apparently so long expected by everybody else and the cause of so much gaiety, had made her stomach sink unpleasantly. She wondered if Mr. Finch knew—no, she decided, he could not, for he had looked so cheerful and content when they had met the day before. Kitty's heart burned with sympathy for him. The poor gentleman! He was so good, and had done everything right; really he was the hero of the story, she thought sadly, and yet all of his virtue and kindness had come to naught. If only she had tried harder to speak on his behalf!

"You see, Mary," Rose was saying merrily, "that is why you all must come back in the spring; I should love to have you at my wedding."

"I am sure Mr. Bennet could not disapprove of that!" Mrs. Bennet cried.

Kitty scrutinized her friend. Rosamond, her hand tucked securely into the crook of his Lordship's elbow, was glowing, her eyes dancing, her cheeks faintly pink, her mouth curved with the smile which she could not quite keep from her face. Her features, usual serene and composed, were lit with lively animation, and she kept glancing up at her betrothed, who was presently the object of her brothers' affectionate harassment.

Had Rose ever looked so, when talking of Mr. Finch or walking on his arm? Perhaps he had never had a chance at all. For a moment Kitty felt very wretched indeed—but then Rosamond glanced at her and their eyes met, and it was suddenly very plain that this was all her friend had ever wanted, and this was what was right, and Kitty could not bear to be unhappy when her dearest friend was so plainly overjoyed.

And so she smiled, and hurried forward and took Rose into her arms with all the affection of a sister.

"I think you will be deliriously happy," she said, beaming at the young couple.

"I think you are right," his Lordship agreed, his gaze upon his bride-to-be. Rosamond took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"You will come to the wedding, won't you, Kitty?—If your father and mother agree," she added conscientiously. "And even if you may not, then at least say you will come to visit us when we are married and settled. Would you not like to stay a Season with us in London?"

"Indeed, Miss Katherine, we should be glad to have you at Breezewood House," Lord Adlam said politely. Kitty's heart, already slightly softened toward the young viscount by the adoring way in which he looked at Rosamond (a gentleman with such tenderness in his gaze could not be as malevolent as she had supposed him, after all), melted still further at the offer of a Season in London—and staying in a fashionable household, at that! It was everything which Mr. Price had once promised her, without the taint of duplicity.

"You are too generous, sir," she said, curtsying low. Then she giggled. "And you told me only the other day, Rose, that you could not imagine having a wedding just now!"

"In fact it is a few years before I had planned to marry," Rosamond answered, blushing modestly, "for I have always believed that I could not acquire the necessary sagacity before the age of twenty-two at least."

Kitty shook her head. "Indeed, I am sure you could not be any more sagacious if you tried ever so hard."

"As your sister would tell me," Rosamond said, laughing, "one may always endeavor to improve oneself. But anyway I have fallen in love, despite all my efforts not to. Sometimes one must simply admit defeat, I suppose."

_Yes_, Kitty thought, _and poor Mr. Finch will have to admit defeat, as well._

But she brushed the thought away. It would not do to dwell upon what could not be changed. Her duty now, she told herself, was to be happy for one friend, and sympathetic to the other.

The Bennets passed a very pleasant hour at Hart House, and then, as it was to be their last visit for the foreseeable future and they were enjoying themselves so much, they passed another. Everybody was cheerful and determined to be amused with the present company, and consequently there was a great deal of laughter and noisy talk. Though they were there to say good-bye, it did not feel, yet, like a separation: Rosamond's wedding in the spring stood before them with the happy prospect of reunion.

Yet Kitty began to feel rather wistful as she gazed around the assembled company. She was suddenly very fond of everybody, even Lord Adlam though she hardly knew him, and the thought of leaving them behind was heartbreaking to her. She sighed heavily, and Anne Hart, seated beside her, turned to her with sympathy in her looks.

"It is never easy to leave one's friends," she remarked.

"No indeed," Kitty agreed, "even to go home. Lord! It is strange to think of being at Longbourn again; so much has happened since I left there, and I feel that I won't know what to do with myself when I return."

"Are you not eager to see your father and sister again?"

"It will be good to see them, of course," she admitted, "but I rather wish that it were the other way around—that is, that _they_ were the ones I visited, and _these_ were the ones amongst whom I lived. I feel as if I can bear the society here much more happily than I can bear the society of my family."

Anne laughed. "I remember feeling much the same when I left Bath," she confessed.

"And the wish came true for you," Kitty said, "for now you do live here amongst all of your friends."

"It may come true for you as well—our situations are not so dissimilar."

Kitty shook her head with a little laugh. "No," she said teasingly, "for you were leaving behind a gentleman who was very much in love with you, by all accounts, and I am leaving behind nothing of the sort. Rose says that Mr. Hart chased you all the way to Kent, but I cannot think of anybody who will chase me to Hertfordshire."

Anne blushed. "But we may see you in the spring, at least, and by then perhaps the situation will have changed—one can never tell."

Kitty privately thought this unlikely, but only smiled.

At last Mrs. Bennet, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, began to say that they could not stay much longer. Her words were greeted with protests from their hosts, but indeed there was still packing to be done and final arrangements to be made, and they must go. And so everyone rose from their seats, and there were many fond gestures and kind words shared, particularly amongst the young people.

"It will be very dull here, once you are gone," Rosamond said to Kitty.

"Not nearly so dull as Hertfordshire," Kitty sighed, and her friend laughed.

"Nay, you must create some excitement there, my dear Kitty, for I shall expect many letters from you, detailing all of your adventures—and I will not settle for dullness. At any rate you have Christmas at Pemberley to look forward to, which must certainly be enchanting. But we shall miss you here—_I_ shall miss you, very much."

Kitty, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears, threw her arms about her friend.

"I am very sorry for all of the times that I was disagreeable," she gasped, all in a rush, "and for all of the times that I was silly and foolish, of which I am sure there have been plenty. I shall write to you every day, and I shall do everything to make Papa bring us back for the wedding, and in the meantime I hope you are perfectly happy and well."

This was all she could manage, but the two young ladies embraced tightly for a moment longer, before separating. Kitty went to bid her farewells to the others, and Mary hurried forward.

"Goodbye, Rosamond," she said, with a sudden rush of affection. "I think I shall miss you more than anybody."

Rose laughed. "You need not say so," she teased, "for I know where your thoughts _truly_ lie; but it is good of you, Mary. I shall miss having you come to play for me each day, and attending concerts with you."

"You have been very generous, in allowing me the use of your instrument and of your concert-tickets. I am sure I have done nothing to deserve such kindness."

Her friend waved a dismissive hand. "It is always agreeable to do favors for one who is so appreciative; and the favor has been more than repaid by the pleasure of your interesting conversation. But," she said, glancing pointedly over Mary's shoulder, "I imagine your attentions are desired elsewhere just now, and so I shall bid you my final farewell—at least until we meet again."

Mary, looking over her shoulder, saw Robert glancing at them, and then glancing away with studied carelessness. An involuntary smile quirked her lips.

"Mr. Hart," she said, when she gained Robert's side. He looked down at her, smiling, though his face was a little red.

"Miss Bennet."

Mary, unaccustomed as she was to any sort of interaction with a gentleman, let alone one to whom with whom she had an understanding, was uncertain of how to proceed. She felt no need to make any final declarations—indeed, everything had already been laid out so plainly between them that it seemed quite superfluous. To engage in any other sort of conversation, however, felt far too frivolous; how could they stand discussing the weather, or any other neutral topic, under such circumstances?

Robert, too, seemed rather out of his depth, and they stood in silence for a long moment. It was not an uncomfortable silence; in fact it seemed to speak more clearly than any words might have done. Yet Mary, growing aware of her mother's gaze upon her back, eventually cleared her throat.

"I wish you well in your studies," she said carefully.

"Thank you. And I hope you have a very comfortable journey. When will you reach Longbourn?"

"By Wednesday, at the latest. It is not a long journey—only a day and a half, or so."

"Indeed, it seems quite an easy distance."

"Mary," Mrs. Bennet said, from where she was pulling on her gloves. Kitty, too, was near the door, buttoning her spencer. Mary turned to them for an instant, and then turned Robert again. He was regarding her fondly, and for a moment she felt the weight of his gaze. His gray eyes, warm and clever and thoughtful, held an infinite promise.

"Mr. Hart," she said, and curtsied.

"Miss Bennet," he said, and bowed.

* * *

"Well!" Mrs. Bennet huffed, as they climbed into the carriage. "How utterly unaccountable! He did not speak to me once, except to say goodbye, though certainly there are arrangements to be made, and indeed he has not yet even announced himself! I cannot understand it!"

"Of whom are you speaking, Mamma?" Mary asked, turning to gaze out the window at Hart House.

"Of your _betrothed_, of course, Mary—of Robert Hart! You say you are engaged, and yet there has not been one word of a wedding! And with his own sister's engagement announced today, why, one would think the topic might be a natural one to broach with his future mother-in-law!"

"Perhaps he did not wish to detract from the celebration of Rose's happiness," Kitty suggested. Mrs. Bennet snorted.

"Whatever he wishes, my dear, the fact of the matter is that this is the last time we shall meet for several months, and he, as a man who will be married to my daughter, has a certain duty! He behaves as if there is no engagement! I am sure this cannot be pleasant for _you_, my Mary, to be engaged to a man who seems not to notice that—"

"We are not engaged, Mamma," Mary interrupted.

Mrs. Bennet was momentarily shocked into silence; and then, violently, "Do you mean he has broken the engagement?"

"No, Mamma. The engagement is not broken—it is postponed, if you will."

"_I will not_!" Mrs. Bennet cried. "Postponed? It might as well be broken! I do not know what you think you are about, Miss Mary, but this all speaks of great carelessness on your part!"

"It would be careless to become engaged at the present time," Mary replied, doing her best to remain calm. "He is only a student, with years ahead of him before he can reasonably support a wife; and I have no desire for a husband just now. We have an understanding, Mamma. Is that not enough?"

"An 'understanding'? And what do you think will happen, in the months or years before you meet again? It is not as though he lives in our neighborhood, and so will might occasion to remember that he is promised to you, and can be watched; there are miles between you, and Bath is full of beauties, and he may well slip through our fingers before ever a word is spoken of marriage!"

"He will not," Mary said with great conviction.

"It is all very well for you to say so, my girl, but I have told all of my friends in Meryton that my daughter is engaged; and now I shall return home and have to tell them instead that in fact there is some small chance that she _may_ marry in several years but that until then—"

"Mamma," Kitty broke in, glancing sympathetically at her sister, "Rosamond has invited me for a Season in London—after she is married, of course."

This news was sufficient to distract Mrs. Bennet from her vexation; and with only a little further coaxing from her younger daughter, she was soon drawn into a far more agreeable conversation on Rosamond's great good luck in having caught a viscount, and the generosity of her extending an invitation to Kitty, and the likelihood of Kitty, as a guest at Breezewood House, perhaps _also_ catching the eye of some member of the peerage (for who knew what fine titles and handsome fortunes waited among Lord Adlam's friends and connections?). Mary, afforded room to breathe, afforded her sister a grateful look, which Kitty acknowledged with a nod.

The drive back to Henry Street was thus rather pleasant, as the horses trotted easily through the autumn air of Bath. It was a fine crisp day, and everybody seemed to be out in the streets and parks, intent upon some errand or amusement. The weather had grown colder, and the trees had begun to turn; but to Kitty the city looked just as enchanting as it had when she first beheld it in the summer. The white buildings were lit faintly gold with the afternoon light, and the river gleamed a brilliant blue under the clear sky as they crossed over the bridge from Widcombe.

Their last evening was spent engaged in earnest battles with their trunks (namely Kitty's and Mrs. Bennet's, for they had indulged themselves the most in all of the alluring shops along Milsom Street; but even Mary had acquired several new volumes of fiction, which seemed unwilling to fit into her trunk alongside all the abandoned books of sermons and moral essays). Supper was a quiet, uninspired affair, scraped together by the cook from the remainders lingering in the cupboard. The family sat in the drawing-room for a little while after they dined, but each was so occupied with her own thoughts and reflections that there was no conversation to be had, and everybody went to bed very early.

"Do you know," Kitty said, as she and Mary undressed, "I have grown rather accustomed to sharing a room with you."

Mary, pulling the pins from her hair, glanced at her. "Have you?"

"Yes; it was not at all the unpleasant ordeal which I thought it would be. In fact I have rather enjoyed it. Haven't you, Mary? It is nice to be able to talk together like this—it is so much cozier than our separate rooms at Longbourn."

"I suppose it does make conversation more convenient."

"I hope," Kitty ventured, after a long moment, "that we will still be friends, when we are at home."

Mary gave her sister a little smile. "We are sisters, Kitty."

"Yes, but you know what I mean. Until we had come to Bath, I thought you most dreadfully dull and irritating, and I am sure you did not like me very much either. And yet now we may talk together very easily, and we do not argue nearly so much as we once did. In fact when I think again of how we used to be, it makes me rather exhausted. It is no wonder Mamma's poor nerves suffered!"

"Mamma's poor nerves will suffer in spite of all our best efforts," Mary said wryly. "But I take your meaning. It is pleasant to enjoy a natural sisterly intimacy, where before there was only animosity."

"I only hope that our 'sisterly intimacy' does not disappear once we are leading separate lives again," Kitty said, and though she did her best to sound flip, a note of sadness crept into her voice. Mary stopped combing her hair and turned to face her sister.

"I think such a change unlikely," she said, kindly. "I take too much pleasure in your company, Katherine, to allow a distance to spread between us once again. There is a difference between separate rooms and separate lives."

Kitty smiled gratefully at her, and a companionable silence fell between them. At length, she said, "How strange, that Rosamond and Lord Adlam should be so suddenly engaged!"

"Do you call it sudden? Robert told me some time ago that he thought an engagement likely, and Juliet has been most impatient for Rosamond to make the announcement. And of course the elder Mr. Hart has long appeared certain of Lord Adlam's feelings for his sister. I can even recall Mrs. Hart making some hint to that effect."

"Oh," Kitty replied, a little crestfallen. So truly everybody had known, except for her! "Well," she said, taking on a lighter tone, "I suppose if _I_ were in love with some member of the Hart family, I would be as well-informed as you are."

Mary flushed and narrowed her eyes. "It is hardly a secret, Katherine. In fact I cannot believe you were so surprised—you out of everyone! Has Mr. Finch not made some suggestion of the matter to you?"

Kitty started. "Mr. Finch? Why should he tell me anything about Rose and Lord Adlam?"

"It was my understanding that Oliver Finch was a particularly intimate friend of Rosamond's," Mary said, with a little shrug. "He spends a great deal of time at Hart House; I am sure he is as aware of the situation as anybody else. And the two of you seem to have developed a friendship over the past weeks, and knowing your fondness for gossip of the matrimonial variety—"

"No," Kitty interrupted stiffly, "we never spoke of it."

"Well," Mary went on, "it is good news, anyway. One likes to know that one's friends have the greatest possible chance of happiness."

Kitty made a small noise of agreement. "But, you know," she said suddenly, "it does seem rather unfair for one person to be so lucky. Rose is exceedingly beautiful, and clever and amiable, and everybody loves her so well; and now she will be a viscountess, and be prodigiously wealthy. And Lord Adlam loves her quite to distraction, from the look of things. It is all very nice for _her_, but I am sure that if only I did not like her so well, I would quite despise her."

"How fortunate for Rosamond," Mary teased, "that you are far enough advanced to look beyond your natural tendency toward loathing."

"Yes; you see, she is blessed with far too much good fortune," Kitty agreed with mock solemnity, and laughed.

* * *

They left Bath very early the next morning. Though Mary had told Robert that it was an easy distance, Mrs. Bennet nonetheless had a horror of long journeys, due to the effect which the rattling carriage so often had upon her poor nerves, and wished to have it over with as soon as possible.

The city was only beginning to stir as they climbed into the post-chaise; the sun was lifting in the east, and casting a pale glow over everything. The horses jogged lightly along Henry Street and turned north onto Pierrepont, carrying them alongside the Avon, which danced merrily under the North Parade bridge. A few carts and carriages shared the road with them; shopkeepers' assistants and servants walked along the footpaths, but there was no urgency to their movements, as though it were too early to be concerned with anything. Kitty pressed her nose to the window. A cool breeze rustled the treetops at the river's edge, but otherwise everything was still and quiet. They turned onto the Pulteney Bridge and crossed Henrietta Street, where most of the houses still had their curtains drawn. Mary, glancing down the street, remembered walking in Henrietta Park with Robert on a much warmer day; she thought this was the way they had come, along the street and then through the mews…

But then they were jogging faster along Great Pulteney Street, rounding the western edge of Sydney Gardens (how long it had been since they had all sat there under the stars and fireworks, and listened to the orchestra!) and passing the fine homes along Sydney Place. They caught Warminster Road, leaving the gardens behind, and that carried them east through the rows of houses and cottages that gradually grew farther and farther apart, all the way through Bathford, finally petering off into sprawling greens and fields dotted here and there with crops of buildings that were gone as soon as they had come.

The sun had risen by now, and everything glistened in the dewy morning light. Mrs. Bennet was snoring softly in her corner; Mary and Kitty shared a glance. Kitty took her sister's hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Think only how pretty this will all be in the spring!" she whispered, and Mary smiled.

The ride from Bath was much quieter than the ride to had been, for Mary was occupied with one of her novels (she did not find that reading in the carriage hurt her head, anymore) and Kitty was busily writing her first letter to Mr. Finch, as she had promised. At any rate, the carriage was not nearly so stuffy as it had been in August; the cool autumn weather was ideal for traveling, and Mrs. Bennet declared that she did not know why anybody traveled at all during the rest of the year. Despite the additional luggage, the post-chaise did not feel as crowded as it once had; their stops to refresh the horses afforded them ample opportunities to stretch their legs and enjoy the fresh air, and their two days' journey passed easily and pleasantly, with the added charm of fine October scenery along the way. Kitty, gazing out of her window at the lines of red and gold trees along the road, silently wished that they were rows of buildings in Bath-stone instead; but Mary rejoiced at the sight of so much greenery (and reddery and goldery), and felt her heart lift as each mile brought them closer to Longbourn.

What a curious feeling it is, to return home after a long absence! They had been gone for nearly three months, and it was strange—and wonderful—to turn into the old familiar lane, last seen bordered by the spreading flowers of summer and now covered by the brilliant leaves of autumn; and how strange to see the large drafty house come into view, and to see the front door open and Mr. Bennet come out into the drive, looking quite as he always had, and yet different. He was smiling, and they all smiled too, as the post-chaise drew to a slow stop and they were able to climb down.

"My dear!" Mrs. Bennet cried, hastening forward to greet her husband. "We have so much to tell you—there is so much that has occurred, and I daresay we will be able to entertain you for months, with all of the stories which we have to share! Oh, my dear, if only you had come with us! It was the most marvelous adventure—was it not, girls?"

Mr. Bennet made a show of craning his neck to peer into the carriage behind them. "Well," he said, eyeing his daughters approvingly, "I do not see any villainous husbands lurking in the shadows of the post-chaise to leap out and startle me, and so I can only conclude that the adventure was less of a disaster than I had anticipated. Hello, Mary; hello, Kitty." He embraced them both fondly. "I trust you have had a pleasant journey?"

"Dreadful, my love, quite dreadful," Mrs. Bennet sighed. "You know I cannot abide these long journeys by carriage; they play so ill upon my nerves."

"If you will only precede me into the house, my dear, you may find something of a restorative awaiting you." He bowed with mock solemnity and motioned her toward the door. Mrs. Bennet, giving a little squeal of surprise and delight, bustled away; but her husband hung behind, and proffered an arm to each of his girls as they walked.

"You are both rather quieter than I had expected," he said. "Why are you not giggling, Kitty? Or you, Mary—I have been looking forward to a long lecture on the frivolity of Bath's society and amusements. Will you disappoint me?"

"I am afraid I must, Papa," Mary replied, with a little smile. "Indeed I must give you a very bad shock, and tell you that I rather enjoyed myself, despite the frivolity of my surroundings. But I am most glad to be home."

Mr. Bennet gasped and pressed a hand to his breast. "Is this my child? Has there been some celestial catastrophe, which has resulted in a reversal of the rules of the world? Kitty, my girl, reassure your papa, and tell me you have fallen in love with some ostentatious redcoat who possesses more charm than sense, and plan to be married on the green tomorrow."

"No indeed, Papa," Kitty laughed. "There were no redcoats to be found, but I did not mind it. There was _one_ gentleman who sparked my interest—you may have read about him in Mamma's letters—but ultimately I determined that he was quite unsuitable."

"Ah, yes, the infamous Mr. Price. Your mother seemed to have great hopes of him; personally I thought he sounded alarmingly similar to one of the sons-in-law of which I am already possessed, and I was disappointed, for I like to have some variety in my sons-in-law. I am proud of you, my dear, for not having strayed down that path."

"So am I," Mary chimed in, and Mr. Bennet glanced at her in surprise.

"Thank you, Papa," Kitty said; "Thank you, Mary. I have decided, Papa, that from now on I shall think far more seriously before I consider falling in love with anybody. Mary and I have even discussed a list of necessary qualities for a potential husband, and I shall be most insistent upon that score. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not think you will have another daughter married for some time."

Mr. Bennet was too self-contained a gentleman to ever be accused of gaping; but he came rather close now, as he regarded his younger child. "Upon my word," he said at last, "perhaps the carriage has deposited the wrong young ladies on my doorstep."

"Come, come!" Mrs. Bennet crowed, throwing open the window to the sitting-room. "Whatever are you dawdling for? Come inside, girls, and see what your papa has brought to Longbourn for us! I do not know why you tarry so! Mary my love, pick up your hem—it is dragging in the dust!" Her head disappeared through the window again, and Kitty giggled as Mary, disgruntled, did her best to preserve her hem.

"In this, at least, we may take comfort," Mr. Bennet intoned, "that whatever changes are wrought in the world around her, your excellent mother will always remain true to herself. But come now, children, we are dawdling."

And so, picking up their pace as they had been ordered, father and daughters crossed over the threshold into Longbourn, and the Bennet sisters were home once more.

Mr. Bennet's surprise turned out to be a very welcome one: Jane and Mr. Bingley were waiting in the sitting-room, wreathed in smiles, presently giving polite attention to Mrs. Bennet's prattle. There was much happiness in the reunion, and there were so many cheerful exclamations made—of good health, and good looks, and delight at the meeting, and eagerness to hear all the news of Bath and Meryton—that it was some time before everybody sat down again, and they were able to have some sensible conversation.

The Bingleys were of course eager to know how their sisters had enjoyed Bath. Mr. Bingley had been once or twice before with his own family, and he and Jane had recently been contemplating taking a holiday there, "Though," Mr. Bingley added, blushing, "it may be some time before we are able to do so; I understand that ladies in Jane's condition are not meant to do much traveling."

It took a moment for the statement to sink in; and then Mrs. Bennet let out a shriek of delight, and embraced her eldest child with such violence that both of the Bingleys looked rather alarmed and Mr. Bennet said "Carefully, wife!"

"How wonderful!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, beaming. "At last I shall have a grandchild who does not live at the other end of the earth; it will be such a joy to have children at Longbourn again! Of course, Jane, your sisters will be happy to assist you in any way that they might, for they have nothing to do now that we are come home."

"Indeed we have not," Kitty agreed warmly, "and I beg you to make use of me, Jane, for I shall be most dreadfully bored otherwise."

Jane smiled gently. "That is very kind of you, Kitty."

"I am of course honored to perform whatever sisterly duties I may," Mary chimed in. Kitty giggled.

"La, Mary, you might make an excellent governess! You may wear your horrid blue gown, the one you kept trying to wear to balls and parties in Bath. Do you not think it makes her look like a governess, Jane?"

Jane opened her mouth, undoubtedly ready with some careful reply intended to circumvent the seemingly unavoidable quarrel between her younger sisters; but to her surprise (and indeed everybody's, except Mrs. Bennet's), Mary only replied, "I shall gladly teach the child literature and music, Kitty, but you must teach him how to dance."

"Yes—is not that agreeable? We shall be such dreadfully doting aunts that you will grow quite sick of us at Netherfield."

"And yet, under our tutelage, the child may well flourish," Mary said. "For Kitty lives much in the world, and I live in it little. With such influences, the child must certainly grow up to live just as much in the world as he ought."

Everyone turned to stare at her, and she blushed.

"That is how a friend in Bath once phrased it," she muttered, glancing down at her lap. At this, Kitty grinned rather wickedly.

"When she says 'a friend in Bath,' in that very anonymous manner," she informed Jane and Mr. Bingley, "she means Mr. Robert Hart. If it were our friend Rosamond or anybody else, she certainly would have called them by name."

"Let us not talk of Robert Hart," Mrs. Bennet groaned, "for the very mention of him gives me such pains in my head. Do you know, Jane, your sister was all but engaged, and yet she let the gentleman slip away? And Lord knows when she shall ever find another one!"

"Mamma!" Mary protested, and Mr. Bingley's eyes widened; but fortunately at that moment the maid came in to announce that dinner was ready, and the contentious subject of Robert Hart was dropped in favor of a fine hot meal.

The travelers were quite ravenous, for the food at the inn where they had stayed overnight had been disappointing; and anyway, though they had never thought particularly poorly of their Henry Street cook, dinner at Longbourn reminded them how much they had missed the familiar comforts of home. Even Kitty, whose thoughts kept drifting back to Bath, was happy to sit at the battered old table, covered with the reassuringly homely cloth and set with the friendly, slightly chipped plates and bowls off of which she had eaten since childhood ("Why did you not order Hill to put out the good things, Mr. Bennet, knowing that we were to have guests?" Mrs. Bennet hissed, casting a meaningful look at Mr. Bingley).

Conversation at dinner was comfortable and agreeable, covering such a variety of topics as the prospect of Christmas at Pemberley; the latest fashions in Bath; the beauty of the scenery along the way home; the likelihood of Jane's having either a son or a daughter and the naming possibilities inherent in each; Miss Hart's engagement and, very briefly, the idea of returning to Bath for her wedding; the latest letters from Lizzie, Lydia, Charlotte Collins, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, and everybody else with whom the family was concerned; and so on.

Mr. Bennet was pleased that the meal passed without any outbursts or foolish giggles from Kitty, nor any dull lectures or peevish retorts from Mary. Jane was glad to see that her younger sisters appeared fonder of each other than they had ever been before, and Mr. Bingley was delighted to enjoy a meal at Longbourn without any of the awkwardness which usually ensued—for though he had never much minded his wife's relations, nevertheless he never knew entirely what to do with himself when the sisters fought noisily, and the mother complained loudly of her nerves, and the father excused himself to his study.

* * *

The first thing Mary noticed, as she undressed for bed in her own tidy little bedroom, was the silence.

Her conversations with Kitty had become a fairly regular part of her evening routine, and though she was only separated from her sister by a wall, she rather missed the quiet camaraderie which had been bred by their nightly tête-a-têtes. But she had never noticed the constant soft night noises which had served as background to these conversations: carriages clattering by, shouts and laughter in the streets, dogs barking and, occasionally, music and voices from some nearby ballroom or inn. She had once found all of these sounds most disturbing; but now, as she combed her hair, she could hear nothing. Had Hertfordshire always been so deathly silent? Mary did not think it had ever seemed so before, but surely it could not have changed much in the three months she had been away.

Shaking her head, she picked up _The Memoirs of Emma Courtney_ and settled against her pillow.

It was also very dark. This was what Kitty noticed, as she leaned toward the table between her bed and the bed that had once belonged to Lydia, and blew out the candle.

She had grown so accustomed to the comforting glow of street lights and the bright windows of neighbors, that as the little flame flickered and went out, the room suddenly seemed plunged into blackness. Kitty bit her lip. It was silly, of course; she was not a frightened child, but a young lady of eighteen years, who had been raised in the countryside—in this very room, in fact—and so certainly she could not possibly be afraid of a little darkness. She waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the faint light of the moon and stars; but there was a cloud over the moon tonight, and so she closed her eyes instead, willing herself to fall asleep. Had she not had a long journey, which by rights ought to have exhausted her? But indeed she did not feel at all tired, and after a few minutes, she sighed loudly and threw back the cover.

Mary was deeply engaged in Emma Courtney's memoirs when she heard the knock upon her door. Looking up, she met Kitty's sheepish gaze as her sister leaned into the room.

"Oh," Kitty said, "I was afraid you would be asleep."

"I thought _you_ were asleep," Mary answered. "Is something the matter?"

"No," Kitty said, but she remained in the doorway. After a moment, Mary gave a little sigh (more for the sake of appearances than anything else) and laid her book down. Her sister took this as an invitation, and came in and sat upon the edge of Mary's bed.

"Mamma does not know Robert well at all," she began without prelude, "or she would not think he could betray you. I hope you are not worrying about that."

"In fact the thought had not crossed my mind. I have faith in him."

"That is best," Kitty said, surprising herself with a large yawn. "If you did not have faith in him, I would not allow you to marry him. La! What if you become engaged at Rosamond's wedding? That would be very romantic."

"I think it unlikely," Mary said, smiling faintly, "but if the event does occur, you shall be the first to know."

"And I shall tell you first if _I_ ever become engaged, although I do not know when that may happen." She yawned again. "I should not like to tell Papa anything more about Mr. Price. I do not think he knows that we were engaged, and I do not think he ought to know, do you? I am sure he would be most upset, and lock me away forever."

"It would be senseless on his part, for I feel certain the experience alone has taught you enough."

"Thank you," Kitty said, touched. "Nor do I think Jane ought to know, for she does worry so about things, even when they are in the past. I hope Mamma will not tell her; though I am sure she will not, for I have an idea that she is trying to forget all about it.—Do you know what I am going to do tomorrow, Mary?"

"I imagine that you will go call on Maria Lucas," Mary replied, "and perhaps walk into Meryton."

"I had not even thought of that," Kitty said, grinning, "though it is an excellent idea, and perhaps I shall do that as well. No, I was only planning to finish my letter to Mr. Finch. I am sure he could use a comforting word just now." She gave another yawn, larger than the others, and covered her mouth with a little giggle. "Lord! I was not tired at all when I came in here, but now I am tremendously exhausted. Is that not strange?"

"It is hardly a flattering reflection upon my stimulating company," Mary said drily, and Kitty laughed.

"Well, you may rest easy now, Mary, for we are in Hertfordshire again, and there is no need to be stimulating anymore. I declare I must go to bed or I shall fall asleep right here. Goodnight, Mary my dear!"

"Goodnight, Kitty."

Kitty was gone in only another moment, leaving only silence behind her. Mary sat still for a moment, listening to nothing, and glanced down at _Emma Courtney_, but she no longer had any desire to read. Instead she placed her book carefully upon the night table, and leaned over to blow out the candle.

Mary lay there in the dark. And, after a few moments, she began to hear the familiar hushed hum of a country night once again: a chorus of crickets, the occasional faint hoot of an owl, a swift round of barks from the Lucas' dog across the fields at the Lodge, the rustle of windblown leaves in the trees and on the ground. _There_, she thought. _That is what I missed_. She smiled, and closed her eyes. In only another moment she, and the rest of the household, was fast asleep.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:** This is a disappointingly tiny update, for which I apologize. I'm in the process of moving to a new apartment and will be starting grad school in a few weeks, but I wanted to give you all something to nibble on, as it might be a little while before my life is settled enough for me to write a full chapter.

* * *

Kitty, waking in her own familiar bedroom, forgot at first where she was; but her confusion lasted only a moment, as she rose and drew her warm dressing-gown about her and stepped into her slippers. The hour was early—too early for breakfast—but she could hear the faint sounds of the pianoforte drifting up the stairs, and determined that she could not be the only one awake.

Yet, despite the newfound closeness between herself and her sister, Kitty did not want company just now. She went quietly down the stairs and, avoiding the breakfast-room where Mary was at her practice, slipped out the front door. The air outside was cold, and she drew in a sharp breath. The weather could not be so different at Longbourn than it had been in Bath; yet autumn seemed to have a stronger hold here, and Kitty tugged her dressing-gown more tightly about her shoulders as she stood looking out over the drive before her.

It was a fine prospect. The grass was pale in the early morning light, and glimmered with the frost that lay upon it. Leaves of red and gold, tumbled about by the wind, were tinged faint silver with frost; the trees, still clinging stubbornly to some small portion of their coverings, stretched boldly up into the pink sky. The sun, freshly risen behind the house, cast a cheerful light over the entire scene. Kitty, taking a deep breath, could smell the familiar smells of autumn in the country: clean cold air, and distant warm smoke. A slender fox, with a furtive glance over its shoulder, stole across the grass and into the hedgerow.

After a sojourn in Bath that had been filled with so much activity and excitement—and disappointment—Kitty found Longbourn peaceful, more so than she had been expecting. Indeed, standing here in the morning air, Kitty felt every moment as though she would awake from this dream and find herself at Henry Street again, with the sounds of the city outside her window. She yawned.

For the moment, it was rather comforting to have nothing to do besides stand here and look out over the lawn. And yet she longed for the noise and activity of Bath: sitting in the Pump Room, walking along the Avon, shopping in Milsom Street, bathing in the Roman Baths, dancing in the Assembly Rooms. There was so much music in Bath, she thought wistfully, and so many faces and voices; there was always something new and interesting to entertain. Even if not every experience was a happy one, they were all worth something. She thought of her first morning in the city, standing upon the corner of Henry Street and watching all of the people rush by, and a wave of yearning overwhelmed her. The months until Rosamond's wedding suddenly seemed to stretch on into eternity.

But she quickly recalled herself. It would not do to spend the next months pining for what she could not have; though the Kitty of three months ago might have considered this a perfectly reasonable course of action, she could not now support such foolishness. There were things to be done, she reminded herself sternly: she must finish her letter to Mr. Finch, first and foremost. Later she would be obliged to receive calls from the Lucases, no doubt, and likely a few other local families who would be eager for news from beyond their little patch of countryside; and perhaps she and Maria would walk into Meryton, and she could see what was new in all the little shops. It would all be very agreeable and pleasant and simple, as life at Longbourn had always been. And if it was not life in Bath, well, she would endeavor to make the most of it—for it was still _life_, after all.

Thus resolved, Kitty turned and went back into the house.

* * *

Mary had risen even earlier than her sister, and had of course hurried downstairs to the battered family instrument. Rosamond had been so good as to lend her a few sheets of music, which she was eager to attempt, and she spent a very productive quarter-hour working her way through a piece of Scarlatti.

As she played, however, she grew vaguely aware of a feeling that something was missing. It was a very dim sense, barely noticeable; and yet she found herself turning to glance over her shoulder, or pausing when she would not otherwise have paused, or finishing a piece only to find the silence of the room disconcerting. At length, it dawned upon her: she had grown so accustomed to playing at Hart House that she was rather unused to the experience—once so natural to her—of playing in a room all by herself. Mary had come to expect Rosamond's quiet encouragement, her enjoyment of Mary's selections, her calm presence. Even the simple act of finishing a piece and looking up to see her friend smile had become a habit. Having never had such an opportunity before, Mary had not before known how agreeable it was to play for an appreciative audience, even if it was usually only an audience of one.

She frowned. With such a realization weighing upon her, practice suddenly seemed less appealing an occupation than it had before; was this how it was to be, now? Was she to be unable to devote herself to her music as she once had, for missing her friend? Indeed, as she sat there, Mary suddenly felt all the unhappiness of her situation: no longer to discuss music with one who knew and loved it as she did, no longer to attend concerts in the company of enthusiastic friends, no longer to have the luxury of practice without her mother or father disrupting her…

Suddenly dissatisfied, Mary lifted her fingers from the keys and sat back. Though she had acknowledged, when leaving Bath, that she would surely miss the company of her friends, this was the first time she truly felt their absence.

It was at this moment that Kitty came in, red-cheeked from the cold, her slippers wet from standing in the frost. "Good morning, Mary," she said brightly, but her eyes did not quite match her tone.

"Good morning. Perhaps you should go dress; you will catch a chill walking about like that in this weather."

"Yes, perhaps," Kitty agreed, absently toying with the keys of the pianoforte. Mary leaned forward and began carefully organizing the sheet music, having concluded that she would have no more practice this morning.

"But it is very strange," Kitty burst out suddenly, sitting down hard upon the piano-bench, "not to be there anymore!"

"I should have thought that two days' journey would provide sufficient transition, both mental and physical," Mary remarked dryly, though a little part of her could not help agreeing. Kitty sighed.

"Perhaps it ought to have been sufficient, but I declare it is not. Do you not feel rather odd, being at Longbourn again after so long?"

"It is only natural to feel somewhat unsettled after a lengthy stay away from home," Mary said.

"I don't see what you know about it," Kitty replied, with a sideways grin, "for you have never been away from home for more than a few weeks, and then only to visit Lizzie. But I am sure you are right. In a few days it will all be very ordinary again, and then it will be Bath that seems like a dream."

"Indeed. Are you not glad to be home, Kitty?"

"Oh," said Kitty, "I suppose I am."

It was not a particularly forceful response, and Mary turned to her in some concern. Seeing the look upon her sister's face, Kitty shook herself and smiled.

"I _am_ glad to be home, Mary," she assured her. "It is only—I rather feel as if I would be gladder to be home, if I had not ever gone to Bath. Do you see what I mean?"

"I think I do," Mary replied hesitantly.

"I mean," Kitty went on, as if her sister had not spoken, "that now that I have seen more of the world, and been a part of it, I do not think I can be so content to sit here at Meryton and let it all pass me by. Everything here seems much duller and quieter than it did before, though I know Meryton cannot have changed _very_ much. I used to think our village the center of the world, except for London of course, but now I think it rather insignificant. Is that not horrid of me? But I cannot help it."

"You are only tense from the journey, I imagine," Mary soothed. "Before long we shall all return to our usual rhythms and routines, and everything will fall into place again. You will soon find as much to please you in Meryton as you ever did."

Kitty smiled, though she was not convinced. "Anyway," she said, "I must not mope, and nor must you (for I am sure you must be missing Robert very much by now), or Papa will never let us go to Rosamond's wedding."

Mary wished to refute the charge of her missing Robert, though indeed Kitty was not far wrong, but had not the opportunity. Their mother bustled in at that moment, followed swiftly by Hill, who began laying the things for breakfast.

"Why, girls!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, startled. "I had not expected you to be awake so early, not after such a long journey. Indeed I had thought to stay abed myself, for I hardly slept a wink last night (the carriage ride gave me such pains all up and down) but I awoke at dawn this morning, and simply could not shut my eyes again, for I had so many things upon my mind.—Tell me, my dears, what do you think of this happy news of Jane's? I _thought_ she looked rather flushed when she greeted us yesterday, and I was not at all surprised to hear the announcement. It is a mother's intuition, you know. Have you been practicing, Mary? It was very good of Rosamond to lend you her music; let us hope that she retains her good nature even after she is married and made viscountess, and can have no more care for any of us."

"I am sure Rose will not neglect her friends once she is married," Kitty replied, moving to help Hill. Mrs. Bennet, who had settled into a dining-chair, eyed her doubtfully.

"Oh? But wealth and title can have an odd effect upon a person," she remarked. "It is all very well for Miss Hart to be amiable and kind, when she is only a physician's daughter and is obliged to please everybody, but Lady Adlam may not be nearly so conscientious. But we will not think of that now. Indeed, girls, you must take extra pains to remain in her good graces, for think only how many excellent barons and dukes she may introduce to you! How would you like to have a title, Kitty?"

"Oh, Lord, I shouldn't care for it," Kitty replied. "Not if it meant I had to have a husband, as well." She laughed, and Mrs. Bennet frowned.

"You will change your mind, my girl, once you see the fine house of which your friend shall be mistress," she sniffed. "Or _houses_, I should say, for I am sure there is more than one. And you, Mary, how should a title suit you?—Though I know no title shall please you as well as _Mrs. Hart_, but I am afraid you must give that up entirely. You have only yourself to blame, you know."

"I know, Mamma," Mary replied patiently, sliding Rosamond's music carefully into its sheath.

"I am sure you will grow to be an old maid," Mrs. Bennet sighed, though it was too early in the day for any real vitriol, "and once your father and I are dead and the Collinses have thrown you out of Longbourn, you will be a great burden upon all your poor sisters."

"We shall bear it as best we can," said Kitty with mock solemnity, looping an affectionate arm about her sister's shoulders.

"I do not know why _you_ should be so merry, Miss Kitty," her mother said sternly, "for if you continue as you are, turning your nose up at every gentleman who crosses your path, then you shall be an old maid right alongside her. You are lucky that Jane and Lizzie are so well married, for Lydia could not support you, and then you would have nothing to do but starve in the poorhouse."

"What's this?" Mr. Bennet demanded, coming into the room. "Talk of old maids and poorhouses so early in the morning? I declare I shall not have it, not before breakfast. Give us some toast and butter, my dear, and then you may make all the grim predictions you like."

Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips, but was obligingly silent; and the family sat down to breakfast, their first together in nearly two months.

* * *

Kitty's letter to Mr. Finch was finished soon after breakfast, though she was a little disappointed with it, for it did not consist of much: just a short description of the uneventful journey home, with a brief mention of her family's happy news, a wistful passage musing upon what she had left behind her, and a hesitant, vague, rather jumbled attempt at comforting him in the wake of Rosamond's engagement. She felt particularly awkward as she penned the last part, for she and Mr. Finch had never actually discussed his relationship with Rosamond, and she had the sense that he thought his feelings and hopes better hidden than they were. So she wrote only, _If there has lately occurred anything which might cause you pain, I hope that the pain will be of short duration, and that you will take comfort in knowing you have at least one friend who shall always offer sympathy—far away though she may be just now!_

Well, she thought, regarding the hastily-scrawled paragraph, she had never claimed to be an excellent writer.

After this it was short work to pen a cheerful note to Miss Diana Finch, in which she enclosed the letter to that lady's brother with a quick explanation of the circumstances, and a request that she might pass the letter along at her convenience. And then her correspondence was done, and she sat glumly at her writing-desk, reflecting upon how little news there was to share in Meryton. (Though it was a little unfair of her to expect _any_ news, given that she had yet been at home for less than a full day.)

Fortunately, she was not obliged to sit so forever. Lady Lucas and her two youngest daughters called shortly thereafter, and were shown into the drawing-room in varying attitudes: the lady attempting to prove, with dignified kindliness, that she bore her more fortunate neighbors no ill will for spending two months in Bath when _she_ had had no such opportunity; and Miss Maria and Miss Henrietta (the latter only very lately 'out') wide-eyed with envy and admiration, eager to hear every piece of fashionable gossip which was offered.

"I am _so_ glad you enjoyed yourselves, my dear Mrs. Bennet," Lady Lucas said graciously. "I was sure you would. My William and I spent a Season there, you know, before the children were born, and I thought it a most agreeable place, though of course nothing to Town."

"I am sure it must have changed a great deal since you were there," Mrs. Bennet replied, with an air of indulgence. "As it is now, I could not imagine enjoying London any better than Bath. London is so crowded, it is really quite unpleasant, and the streets there are never as clean as they ought to be. In Bath one may walk anywhere without fear of the dirt."

"Were there a great many lords and ladies?" Henrietta Lucas asked Kitty breathlessly.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Certainly the ballrooms were always much fuller than they are here," Kitty said, with a careless little laugh. "It was rather a crush at times."

"That is the unforunate thing about Bath," Lady Lucas agreed sagely. "Everyone talks so much about the Upper Rooms, but as I remember they are rather uncomfortable for dancing."

"Kitty did not seem to mind it," Mrs. Bennet said affectionately, tucking a curl behind her daughter's ear. "Indeed she danced every dance at every ball, did you not, my love?"

"Oh, did you really?" Maria gasped. Kitty shrugged modestly.

"There were _several_ gentleman who would not stand up unless it was with her," Mrs. Bennet continued, smiling, "and one in particular who was very fond of her—very fond indeed—though unfortunately she was obliged to break his heart."

"It would not have been a good match," Mary interjected, looking up from _Emma Courtney_ to glare at her mother. Kitty cast her a grateful glance. She had rather hoped that the day would pass without any mention of Mr. Price.

"Ah, yes," Lady Lucas said, "I believe you mentioned him in one of your letters. How unfortunate that he proved unsuitable."

"Unfortunate for _him_," Mrs. Bennet said, a little flustered. "Kitty can do much better—indeed there is more than one young gentleman who is greatly looking forward to our return. But poor Mr. Price really was very heartbroken, and in fact he left Bath soon after. It seems Kitty was the only thing holding him there."

This sounded very impressive to the Miss Lucases, who sighed and stared, dazzled, at Kitty; but Lady Lucas was rather more shrewd than her daughters, and merely raised an eyebrow. Kitty, faltering, flushed and looked away.

"And are you to return?" Lady Lucas asked, charitably changing the subject. Mrs. Bennet, back on solid ground, beamed.

"We certainly hope to. The girls' _particular_ friend, a Miss Rosamond Hart, is soon to be wed—to a young viscount of our acquaintance, by the name of Lord Julian Adlam, perhaps Sir William is acquainted with him?—anyway she has very kindly invited us to her wedding in the spring. We should not miss it for the world."

"How pleasant."

"I have never even gone to Bath _once_," Henrietta Lucas moaned jealously. Kitty could not suppress a smile.

The ladies' talk soon turned to other matters, for Mrs. Bennet was eager to share with Lady Lucas another source of triumph—that is, that she was soon to have a _fourth_ grandchild, when her friend so far had only one. But the Miss Lucases had not heard nearly all they wished to hear of Bath, and consequently it was not very long before the younger ladies requested permission to walk into Meryton together, and see what was new in the shops.

"I am afraid it will be a sore disappointment to you, Kitty, after the pleasures of Milsom Street," Mrs. Bennet sighed, "but certainly you may go, if only you will be home before it is too late. Walk along with them, Mary; the exercise will do you good."

Mary needed no further excuse to escape from the idle gossip that was to pollute the air of the sitting-room; though the walk to Meryton would scarcely provide more sensible conversation, at least she would be in the open air, and so she cast her book aside and went to don her coat and bonnet.

It was rare that Kitty had the opportunity to feel superior to anybody—least of all the Lucas sisters, whose father, a knight, was what passed for gentry in the neighborhood of Meryton. Kitty and Maria had always been particular friends, being of the same age and similar temperaments, with similar taste in amusements; but in spite of this long friendship, Kitty could not help enjoying the supremacy which was lent to her by having just returned from a fashionable holiday, when Maria had never been anywhere more fashionable than the drawing-room at Rosings Park.

"Is your friend really a viscountess?" Henrietta asked.

"Not yet," Kitty admitted. "But she will be, before much longer. And she has already invited me to stay in Town with her for a Season. Her husband's family has a very fine house there."

"Oh! I beg you to take me with you," Henrietta gasped.

"But come, Kitty," Maria pressed, "you must tell us more about this gentleman who was so much in love with you. Was he very handsome?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Kitty saw Mary cast a glance in her direction. But she was determined not to betray any distress, and so she replied, "Everybody seemed to think so. There was hardly a young lady in Bath who was not half in love with him."

"And yet he chose _you_," Maria sighed, and though she undoubtedly did not mean any insult, Kitty could not help remembering Mr. Price's admonishment to her: _I chose _you_, a plain little country-lass_. She shuddered involuntarily. Fortunately it went unnoticed.

"He did seem very fond of me," she said, doing her best to sound nonchalant. "But I found myself unable to return his regard."

"Did he propose to you?" Henrietta demanded.

"Well—" She hesitated, and Maria squealed.

"He _did_! And you had to turn him down, because you could not love him as he loved you. Lord, Kitty, how romantic! Why, it is like something from a novel!"

"Oh, it was nothing so exciting," Kitty replied, embarrassed.

"Indeed it was not," Mary said firmly, with all the authority of an elder sister. "In fact it was rather distressing for Katherine at the time, and I am sure she does not wish to discuss it any longer. No one likes to dwell upon unhappy memories."

The Lucases fell silent for a moment, suitably chastened. But the peace could not last, for three of the young ladies in the party possessed dispositions ill-suited to silence, and at length young Henrietta, with a sly glance in Mary's direction, said, "Mamma had a letter from your mother, Mary, which said that you had formed an attachment of your own."

Mary colored immediately in spite of herself, and pursed her lips, but could not think of a properly dampening response.

"Yes," Maria added, giggling, "you must tell us all about this Mr. Hart, for we have been dying to hear of him—the gentleman who could catch _your_ attention must be a rare one indeed!"

"To be sure," Kitty interjected wickedly. "He is a very singular gentleman, and she is as eager to tell of him as you are to hear of him. Is that not so, Mary?"

Mary shot her a withering glare. "I hardly think Mr. Hart would care to be the topic of this discussion, were he aware of it."

"But Mr. Hart is not here," Maria singsonged, "and so you may speak of him as much as you like. Is he handsome?"

"I hardly know," was the stiff reply. "I find him pleasing enough, but I cannot say whether you would. Such matters are primarily subjective, I find."

The others groaned, and Kitty shook her head impatiently. "That is not the way to speak of one's beloved," she scolded, "and so it seems I shall be obliged to speak of him for you. He is _quite_ handsome, Maria; he is tall and fair, with lovely gray eyes, and a kind look about him. And he is exceedingly amiable, though rather quiet, and very clever. He is studying to be a physician. He reads a great many books, and he and Mary have long serious discussions together which seem dull as death to anyone else, but seem to bring the two of them a great deal of pleasure. There, Mary—have I done well?"

"Better than I might have done," Mary said wryly, and Kitty laughed.

"Of course my sister will not say much," she said, with a confidential air, to Maria and Henrietta, "and you may think she does not care a thing for him; but in fact they are passionately in love, and plan to be married someday, though Mamma does not know it."

"A secret engagement!" Henrietta breathed, her eyes round as saucers. "Lord, Mary, I should never have expected it of you."

Mary merely shook her head, and cast her gaze out over the surrounding countryside.

"Secret engagements and broken hearts," Maria said, in a rather wondering tone. "We simply must make Papa take us to Bath, Henny, or we shall both die old maids. There is no romance to be had in Meryton."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"That is not so," Kitty said sympathetically, though she could not entirely disagree. "There is always the chance of a new rector, or someone's handsome cousin coming to stay, or some such thing; you must not give up hope just yet."

"That is easy enough for you to say," Maria sighed, "for you are to have a Season in London, as the particular friend of a viscountess.—But there! Do you see that bonnet, there in the window of Hall's? That is new in, and I think it very fine; how do you like it, Kitty?"

Kitty pronounced the bonnet "most charming," charitably omitting the fact that it looked quite dowdy compared to some of the concoctions she had seen on the streets of Bath. With such sartorial matters to distract the young ladies, all talk of romance and attachments was dropped in favor of bonnets and ribbons and the new winter fabrics in at the draper's, and a very agreeable afternoon was passed in Meryton by all except Mary who, by the time they left the first shop, began to wish that she had stayed at home with her book.

* * *

They were only a small family party that evening; and as Mr. Bennet declared, at the top of the meal, that he did not care to hear any more about the wonders of Bath and its society and amusements, they were able to enjoy a peaceful supper, without further talk of Mr. Price or Mr. Hart or any other such subjects, pleasant or unpleasant. Kitty, for her part, was rather glad—though she had enjoyed boasting of her exploits (with some exceptions) to Maria and Henrietta, she had also found that talking of Bath only made her miss it more. Mary, too, was glad to have other topics of conversation; only Mrs. Bennet sat and stewed for the entirety of the meal, wishing very much to embark upon some Bath anecdote which would not interest anybody except herself.

But it was not to be; their conversation over dinner and in the drawing-room afterwards consisted of family matters, and the Meryton gossip which Lady Lucas had shared, and other such local topics. It lent a pleasant snug flavor to the evening, and even Kitty began to feel less like a stranger returned from a long journey, and more like a young lady comfortably at home. She contented herself with working upon a bonnet which she had begun months ago and abandoned.

"Look at our girls, Mrs. Bennet," her father proclaimed, warming himself before the cheerful fire. "Mary sits and reads, and Kitty sits and works, and there is nary a cross word between them. I know not what witchcraft you wrought upon them during the course of your holiday, but I blame you for the surplus of quiet evenings which we shall be forced to endure. How could you take our interesting children, and replace them with these sensible strangers?"

"Mr. Bennet, how can you talk so?" his wife scolded. "_I _have done nothing amiss; indeed, if anything they are worse now than they were before, for Mary has given up the only prospect she shall ever have and Kitty has declared herself uninterested in ever finding a husband. I quite despair of them, for all the trouble they give my poor nerves."

"Your poor nerves may be suffering, my love, for which I am heartily sorry; but _mine_ are calmer now than they have been since—why, since Lizzie and Jane married, I think."

"What do your nerves matter?" Mrs. Bennet demanded crossly. "The girls shall die old maids, that is certain, and be troublesome to everybody."

"If they do intend to die old maids," Mr. Bennet said mildly, "I shall not mind it—not if we may spend all our remaining evenings in such agreeable fashion, without giggles or tears or silly little spats. And after all, wife, you and I may not live very much longer; and after we are dead, the girls are their own lookout, and we need not trouble about them any longer."

This was too much for Mrs. Bennet, who let out a wail of distress and threw down her embroidery, and could only be comforted by the swift arrival of Hill with the tea. Mr. Bennet, rolling his eyes, excused himself to his library; and the young ladies of the house retired soon thereafter.


	21. Chapter 21

Life at Longbourn soon settled into its usual patterns, as Mary had predicted, with some alteration—that is, things were generally quieter, which was most agreeable to Mr. Bennet and indeed to the rest of the household as well. Weeks passed, in which the weather grew colder and the daylit hours shorter, but in truth Longbourn was pleasanter and more peaceful than it had been in a long time.

Though they had spent over a year as the only young ladies of the house, Mary and Kitty had never been used to spend much time in each others' company; but now they were often to be seen walking to Netherfield together, or in the breakfast-room, where Kitty had taken to sitting and writing her letters while Mary played, or even, on those rare occasions when Mary could be cajoled, going into Meryton to call upon Mrs. Phillips, or to Lucas Lodge to visit the young ladies of that house.

"How glad I am," Jane remarked one afternoon, when the sisters were all sitting together in the fine drawing room at Netherfield, "that you two should be such good friends. I have always wished that it should be so. It brings such joy to my heart to know that there is no longer any discord under the roof of Longbourn."

"I would not say so," Kitty replied, laughing, "for Mamma continues in high dudgeon as ever, and will hardly speak to Mary, because of the business with Robert Hart. Is that not discord enough for you, Jane?"

"It distresses me to hear of it," Jane said, her fair brow wrinkling. "How unhappy you must be, Mary."

Mary gave an inelegant shrug and glanced away.

"If she is unhappy," Kitty said, "it is only because Robert is in Bath, and she is here at Longbourn."

"That does not make me unhappy," Mary said evenly. "I understand perfectly well the dictates of our circumstances, and that he must remain in one place while I must remain in another. Indeed, perhaps it is better that it should be so; for now we may enjoy a correspondence based entirely upon the expression of thoughts and ideas, without any need for the useless pleasantries which are so often a part of daily personal interaction."

"Lord," Kitty sighed, "how _reasonable_ you are, Mary."

"But do you not agree?" Mary pressed, looking at her younger sister. "Do you not find that your correspondence with Mr. Finch allows you to understand and know him better?"

"Yes, but only because he is not so shy when he writes as when he speaks."

"That is what I mean: writing allows us to break free of the conventions and restraints that typically hamper our everyday conversations. We may be free on the page in a way that we may not in person. The letter is a most valuable tool for the enrichment of understanding."

"I think you and Robert are quite free enough," Kitty answered drily, "for I have heard him speak very frankly with you, and you with him. Neither of you has any idea how to flirt and court and so on; it is a wonder you ever managed to fall in love with each other."

Mary flushed, and Jane interposed gently:

"I am glad you are happy in your situation, Mary, whether Mamma is pleased with it or no."

And with that, she carefully turned the conversation to other topics, upon which the three sisters remained engaged until the two youngest were obliged to take their leave.

"Yet you cannot be _truly_ happy," Kitty said, almost as soon as they had begun the cold walk home. "Not truly, fully happy. You are in love with somebody whom you may not see for several months, and then after that (assuming there is no change in your understanding between now and then) for years. And in the meantime you are obliged to be all alone and not have him by, except for a letter every now and again. You cannot say that makes you happy."

"I know my own feelings. The present arrangement suits both of us, and it is necessary; he cannot obtain his degree here in Meryton, and I should hate to live in Bath or London. And neither of us would care to be married just now."

"Yes," Kitty replied, with faint exasperation, her breath making little irritated puffs in the chill air, "but if you truly love him, you must at least be a _little_ dissatisfied to have him so far away, even though you understand all of the circumstances and their reasoning. You cannot say this is what you would prefer, when you have been used to seeing him several times a week, and talking with him in company."

Mary sniffed. "Perhaps I may admit to some slight dissatisfaction. But I have great faith in our understanding, and in the power of our correspondence. I think it exceedingly important that we shall not be bound to a marriage, or even an engagement, until our knowledge of each others' characters is as complete as possible. This way we can avoid making any foolish mistakes."

Kitty drew back, stung, and Mary immediately regretted her words.

"Forgive me, Katherine," she said, "that was unkind. But you take my meaning. When a relationship is reduced to words upon a page, there is—or should be—less opportunity for folly, of any sort, on either side."

"Perhaps," Kitty answered, and she did not say very much more for the rest of the walk.

With the serendipity that occurs every once in awhile even in the most ordinary lives, Kitty found at home a letter waiting from her from Miss Diana Finch, with, as had become usual, a note from Oliver Finch enclosed—the gentleman's note rather longer than his sister's. Kitty's sour mood was banished as swiftly as it had been provoked, and she took the letter to her favorite window-seat in the sitting room, to peruse it at her leisure.

The correspondence that had arisen between the young ladies of Longbourn and their friends in Bath had been cause for no small amount of remark among the Bennets' family and friends. Mr. Bennet had declared drily, upon more than one occasion, that it seemed his daughters were singlehandedly paying the salaries of the mail coachmen between Hertfordshire and Somersetshire; Mrs. Phillips had raised her eyebrows and said that though her young nieces were not married, at least the trip had not been _entirely_ wasted (a comment which had made Mrs. Bennet rather cross), and Maria Lucas had exclaimed jealously over the thrill that must arise upon having letters come so regularly from so far away a place as Bath.

"I wish I had someone to write to in Bath," her sister Henrietta had sighed, "for all we have is Charlotte, and she is only in Kent."

Kitty had acknowledged this sympathetically.

Though she could not entirely believe that Mary was so unaffected as she claimed by their separation from their Bath friends, Kitty could not deny that her sister made at least one fair point—that is, that correspondence had allowed her to come to know Mr. Finch far better than she ever had in Bath.

The gentleman, so reticent and shy in company, seemed to come alive upon the page: his letters were long and, to her surprise and pleasure, remarkably engaging. They necessarily bore all the awkwardness of new correspondence between friends not very intimately acquainted—such was only natural—but it was a little endearing, for it reminded Kitty very much of the man himself as he was in person, and made clear that this was no poetic love-letter from a practiced scoundrel.

Mr. Finch wasted no ink upon dull accounts of day-to-day life in Larkhall, nor upon discussions of the weather, and certainly not upon idle gossip. Instead he wrote of things he had read, or seen, or heard, which interested or amused him, and shared pieces of news which concerned their mutual friends; and if Kitty had in her last note posed any questions to him, or made any observations, he returned thoughtful answers, and was always ready to solicit her own thoughts and opinions, and to ask after her family and friends in Hertfordshire.

Indeed, perhaps the chief value of Oliver Finch as a correspondent was his awareness that he was, indeed, corresponding with someone. Lydia, the only other person with whom Kitty had ever kept up anything like a regular correspondence (though indeed it was without much regularity), always wrote long paragraphs consisting entirely of her own affairs; and when Kitty responded with news of Longbourn and Meryton, she received in return another note that detailed Lydia's troubles and triumphs, with nothing said about any of the people or events Kitty had mentioned, and no answers given to any of the questions she had asked, and indeed no sign at all that Lydia had in fact read her sister's letter before answering it.

But Mr. Finch was _not_ Lydia, and so Kitty had come to prize the letters she received from him. She wondered why he had never spoken to her so when she was in Bath; but then, she imagined, much of his attention and energy must have been focused upon his courtship of Rosamond. And she herself had never afforded him a great deal of thought or consideration, at any rate—at least not until the very end of her time there—for before then, she had been too preoccupied with her own affairs. The thought gave her a small pang of embarrassment and regret.

At Longbourn, however, she had the luxury of time at her disposal, and and space in which to reflect, as well as the distinct lack of a social agenda resembling that which the Henry Street household had kept in Bath. With so few distractions and so much time to think, she came to esteem Oliver Finch greatly.

And so she spent a good half-hour reading Mr. Finch's note very carefully, and smiling at the parts which provoked it, and putting it aside for a few moments at a time to think over something he had written; and it was in this attitude of happy reflection that Mrs. Bennet found her.

"What do you sigh and smile over, my dear?" she asked, coming into the room with her sewing-basket over her arm. Kitty looked up.

"It is only a letter from Mr. Finch."

"Indeed?" Mrs. Bennet furrowed her brow. "The poor gentleman; I am sure he is still very broken up over Miss Hart's engagement. But he need not trouble _you_ with his woes."

"He is doing nothing of the sort," Kitty insisted, giggling. "In fact he has not mentioned Rose at all."

This was not entirely true; Mr. Finch_ had_ written that he had met Rosamond at the Fitzwilliams' on Thursday and that they had had a very interesting conversation about a book they were both reading; but Kitty did not mention this, for she did not know entirely what to make of it. This matter-of-factness did not fit her image of the brokenhearted would-be suitor.

Mrs. Bennet looked unconvinced, and gave Kitty a very shrewd look over her embroidery. "I suppose that is good news, at least; but I hope that you are not in love with him, my dear. He is quite unsuitable."

"I am not in love with him," Kitty said honestly.

"Who is unsuitable?" Mary asked, coming in with a book under her arm.

"Mr. Finch," Kitty replied, smiling at her sister to let her know that all was forgiven from the earlier argument.

"Why is Mr. Finch unsuitable, Mamma?" Mary demanded. "He is a gentleman, and a respected one. _And_ he has his own occupation, and spends his time usefully, which is more than can be said for most of the gentlemen in Bath."

"And he was very kind to me, when I was—when I was separating from Mr. Price," Kitty added, reddening. Mrs. Bennet frowned at the mention of that gentleman.

"Mr. Finch is all very well in his own way," she said. "But he is so very _awkward_, my love, and he never has anything to say."

"He is not awkward," Mary protested.

"No, he is quite awkward, Mary," Kitty said mildly. "You do not notice because you are also very awkward. But that does not make him unsuitable, Mamma. Mr. Darcy never talks to you either, and you do not mind that."

"Mr. Darcy has ten thousand a year and his own estate, my dear," Mrs. Bennet sniffed, "and a town-house in Mayfair besides. Anyway I have thought it over, Kitty, and I have decided that we can do much better than a clergyman. You have two very well-married sisters, you know, and soon your _particular_ friend shall be a viscountess, and if all of these relations cannot find a good husband for you, then I do not know what we shall do."

This was a less grim prediction than she had been making for the past several days, and so Kitty only laughed, and Mary only rolled her eyes. Mrs. Bennet frowned at these reactions.

"You may roll your eyes at me if you please, Miss Mary—it is nothing to _me_—you have destroyed all of your own prospects, and I am sure _I_ shall not be to blame one day when you find yourself thirty-three and unmarried and wishing you had secured Robert Hart when you had the chance. I have washed my hands of you.—Nor shall you be young and pretty forever, Kitty, and so it is best if you start taking such things seriously."

"I am taking such things more seriously now than I ever have before," Kitty replied, still smiling, "and that is why I am sure, Mamma, that you shall not find me a husband with whom I can fall in love."

"No indeed?" Mrs. Bennet sniffed. "Just as I did not find Mr. Bingley for Jane, nor Mr. Darcy for Lizzie? Just as I did not say that Mr. Wickham should make a good husband for any of my girls?"

"You said the same thing about Mr. Collins," Kitty muttered, and her mother waved a dismissive hand.

"_That_ was before things were as they are now—before we were a family with such fine connections. Back then I had thought that we should be poor forever. But now, my dear, we may set our sights quite a bit higher than Mr. Collins, and that is why I declare that you must not be in love with Mr. Finch. I have a great feeling that there is a baron or a viscount awaiting you."

"I am not in love with Mr. Finch," Kitty said again. "I can promise you that, Mamma. But I cannot promise to fall in love with your barons and viscounts, whatever you say."

* * *

"But you must admit, Kitty," Maria Lucas said the next day, when Kitty told her of the conversation, "it _is_ very romantic, to have him writing to you from Bath. Mamma has always said that only ladies and gentlemen who are engaged ever write to each other." They were walking into Meryton together, their skirts gently stirring the fallen leaves on the path.

"That is not true," Kitty said, a little annoyed with her friend's naivety. "Mary and Robert write to each other with the same regularity."

She realized as she said it that this was not the best example to prove her point, but brushed off Maria's giggles.

"Anyway," she said, "it is not as though he is writing love-letters; I should find that very dull indeed."

Maria sighed. "You are the only young lady in the world who could find a love-letter _dull_," she declared, "and a year ago I should not have thought it of you, Kitty Bennet. I suppose your mysterious suitor in Bath wrote you all the love-letters you could have wished for, and that is why you don't care a thing for them now."

A sharp pang went through Kitty, and she glanced away. Maria seemed not to notice her agitation.

"And even if your Mr. Finch does not write you love-letters," she went on, "it is not for nothing that he writes to you as he does. He is probably in love with you, even if you don't know it. And _you_ are probably in love with him, and don't know it. Don't you think you are at all in love with him, Kitty?"

Kitty thought for a long moment. She imagined Mr. Finch's handsome face and strong shoulders, his shy smile and endearing blush, his quiet voice and tendency to stumble over his words. She thought of him as he shyly asked her to dance at the Upper Rooms, as he laughed with Rosamond on the Broad Quay bridge, as he towered over Mr. Price in the drawing-room at Henry Street. (At this last, she gave a little shudder. Mr. Price kept creeping into her thoughts at strange times.)

"No," she said to Maria, truth in all her expressions. "I am not."

For she was not. She had indeed begun to think Oliver Finch a necessary part of her own world—but it would not do to be drawn into another unpleasant entanglement. She must take care not to betray herself once more, by fancying herself passionately in love with a gentleman presently so far removed from her, whose correspondence revealed little more than an honest friendship, and a care for her happiness and amusement. She could not afford to spend days cast upon her bed, weeping and pining for her faraway lover. While this course of action may have appealed to the Kitty Bennet of a year ago, Kitty knew very well now that she was _not_ a heroine in a novel, and that love did not work the way she had once thought it did.

She liked Mr. Finch very well; she thought of him affectionately, and had come to consider him one of the most admirable gentlemen of her acquaintance. She looked forward to his letters even more than to Rosamond's. He was intelligent, kind, thoughtful, and occasionally terribly sweet. _That_ she could not deny, nor did she wish to. But as to love—the entire idea made her very tired, and a little sad.

"And I do not think he is in love with me," she added belatedly. "He has recently met with a disappointment; he was in love with a young lady, and she became engaged to someone else. I do not think he is any more disposed to romance than I am just now."

"That is too bad," Maria said, losing interest in the conversation now that it did not include talk of suitors and love-letters any longer. "But, Kitty, I hope you shall overcome your disinclination in time for the Watsons' ball on Thursday; Mary King's brother has come to stay for the winter, and it is said by all that he is very handsome."

Kitty rather doubted this, for Mary King herself was no beauty; but she assured Maria that she was as eager as anyone to see the handsome Mr. King.

"What shall you wear to the ball?" Maria asked, her thoughts now firmly turned in that direction.

Maria Lucas, being not much given to observation or reflection, can be forgiven for not noticing that her friend lacked her accustomed zeal when discussing the Watsons' ball. It had not yet occurred to Miss Lucas that there was much to be expected from life, besides dancing and amusement and, ultimately, marriage—though this was a concept of which she only had the vaguest, most romantic notions, and she thought little more of it than one might think of any other agreeable but distant eventuality. The Watsons' ball, therefore, was the only topic which could occupy her until Thursday, after which she would discuss, for a few days, the various things which had happened in the ballroom, and then she would be obliged to find some other subject of conversation.

But Kitty, though she put on a cheerful face for the sake of her friend, could not find in herself any great amount of interest in discussing the coming assembly, or Mr. King, or which gown she ought to wear, or any other such topic. She was glad when at last they reached Meryton, and talk of the coming assembly was put aside in favor of a very thorough discussion of the new hats on display at Sterling's, and the new fabrics just arrived at Smith's, and other such things: conversation about immediate things, which required nothing more from her than an opinion, and not a great deal of thought.

* * *

The days went by. The Watsons' ball came and went; Kitty danced and laughed enough to satisfy Maria Lucas, though she could not help thinking most of the gentlemen rather unimpressive (the famous Mr. King, as she had expected, was nothing to behold compared to Mr. Finch or Mr. Price or even Robert Hart). Even the one or two handsome gentlemen, with whom she would once have treasured a dance, left her cold; she found them unutterably dull, and prone to talking too much, though she took care not to show her disinterest.

Mrs. Bennet, spoiled by the bounties of Bath's ballrooms, noisily bemoaned the lack of titled lords and gentlemen of fortune to Mrs. Phillips and Lady Lucas. "In Bath," Mrs. Bennet declared, "every gentlemen with whom the girls danced had _some_ sort of title, or at least a prodigious income to recommend him; here it is nothing but country lads one step above the local farmers, with the exception of our Mr. Bingley."

"Indeed it is most trying," Lady Lucas replied, rather smugly, for of course her husband possessed the finest (albeit the only) title in the neighborhood of Meryton.

Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips. "But of course," she said, taking care that Lady Lucas should not rest too comfortably upon her pedestal, "I have great hopes of our return to Bath. We shall be there in the Season this time, you know. Who can say what interesting people the girls might meet?"

Mrs. Phillips fumed silently; for she had neither a title nor an excursion to Bath of which to boast.

Mary danced only one dance, and that with her brother-in-law, for none of the other gentlemen thought to ask her. This suited her well enough, and she spent most of the time in conversation with her sister Jane, or Kitty when she was not dancing. But there were several points throughout the evening during which both of her sisters were otherwise engaged, and she was obliged to sit alone; and though she would once have taken such an opportunity to gloat of her mental superiority, now she could not help longing a little for Robert Hart. She had never realized, before, how dull a ball could be when there was nobody nearby with which to enjoy it.

But the ball ended, as balls do, and Mr. Bennet (who had chosen not to attend) was regaled with an account of it which was far too long for his liking, and then morning came, and before long everything which had seemed so amusing and important under the chandeliers of the Watsons' ballroom began to seem trivial, and people found other things to talk about.

Letters flew between Longbourn and Bath.

Robert wrote of continuing his work in his father's practice, and preparing to leave Hart House after the New Year to take his place at St. Thomas's in London. It was, he confessed to Mary, _a daunting prospect. But it is good to make my own way in the world. I do not think I could be satisfied to sleep forever in the bedroom of my childhood. For one thing, it is very drafty._

Rosamond, in a separate letter to Mary, wrote dryly that her friend would soon be in_ the unique position of being geographically closer to my twin brother than I am—an honor that has never been borne by any of our other friends. I trust that you will treasure the experience._

Mr. Finch wrote that his rector had been struck with a cold, and that he had been obliged to preach the sermon two Sundays in a row, _which I enjoyed, though it was under such unfortunate circumstances. It is a strange thing, for I have never been very adept at amusing conversation—this I am sure you know too well, Miss Bennet—but I have found a certain joy in addressing my parishioners from the pulpit. Miss Hart (in jest, I am sure) claims this as evidence that I was meant for the stage, but I think my enjoyment is born more of necessity than an inclination for performance. After all, if I did not take some satisfaction in the giving of a sermon, I should be a sorry preacher indeed. But this is enough talk of sermons; I promised I would not bore you with them._

To Kitty, Rosamond mentioned meeting Oliver Finch in Green Street a few days ago, _but we did not talk for as long as I should have liked, for it was too cold to linger. He asked after you very kindly, and we then discovered that he had written to you more recently than I, to my great embarrassment. But I thought you might like to know that you are still much thought of here in Bath, and much missed as well, by myself and by many others._

Mary wrote to Robert that _I can only offer you my earnest encouragement, and remind you that very often, it is these daunting tasks which are the most rewarding. One must beware complacency over all things; it is the sign of a listless spirit. _You_ suffer no such malady, and so I am sure that your adventure shall be the making of you._

She reminded Rosamond that _my triumph shall only last a little while, for Kitty informs me that you are to remove to London soon after your marriage, which of course shall put you nearer to Robert than I. But for the time that it is mine, I shall prize the advantage. _

Kitty's letter to Rosamond assured her friend that_ Mr. Finch is an excellent correspondent_, _and I look forward to seeing him when I am in Bath again. But he is a single gentleman, not a young lady preparing for a wedding, and so I do not mind if his letters come more frequently than yours._

She told Mr. Finch how sorry she was for his rector's illness, but added that _I am sure that your enjoyment of your work is evident in your recital, and so makes your sermons the more interesting for your parishioners. Our rector bored Henny Lucas all the way to sleep last week, and Maria was obliged to pinch her rather hard to wake her up. With such competition, you need never worry about boring me with your letters! Indeed I look forward to them with such eagerness that it quite alarms Mamma_

But she stopped there, and after a moment of consideration, carefully scratched out the last words, for there were several implications in them which she did not entirely like. Instead she scrawled _I look forward to them with such eagerness that it sometimes seems as though I live more in Bath than I do in Meryton._ And that was certainly true enough, she thought wryly, surveying her handiwork.

For indeed, though life at Longbourn no longer seemed so strange and quiet to her—though she had grown accustomed to long still days, and evenings with nothing more to offer than a warm fire and, occasionally, supper at Netherfield Hall or Lucas Lodge—she still awoke some mornings expecting to find herself in the little bedroom at Henry Street. And though the disappointment, upon remembering that it was _not_ so, was no longer so great as it had once been, Kitty could not help feeling as though some part of her heart had been left behind in Bath.

It was not even the attractions of the city which had the strongest hold upon her affection; indeed, she scarcely thought of the Pump Rooms or the Roman Baths or even the Assembly Rooms. Her feelings were rooted in much smaller things than _that_, things which she had not even thought to enjoy when they were happening: the morning she spent walking through busy Guildhall Market with Rosamond, or the various crowded tea-shops where she had spent several agreeable afternoons, or even the many carriage-rides she had taken throughout the city, the horses clipping smartly past scenes of such overwhelming ordinariness that she could not imagine _why_ they had impressed her so.

The moment to which she most frequently returned, in her mind, was the first morning she had spent in Bath, when she had stood upon the street-corner and watched everybody hurrying past about the business of their lives. She could remember, even now, how the sights and sounds of the city had thrilled her; she had felt a part of the world in a way that she did not, now. Everything had seemed so fine and exciting and wonderful and new, and she mentioned this to Mary one rainy afternoon, when they were confined to the drawing room at Longbourn.

"Your memory is tinged with the fondness of distance," her sister pronounced. "You are not remembering all the dull rainy afternoons, quite like this one, which we spent at Henry Street—or the concert you attended, which you found so interminable—or any of the other unpleasant things."

"I remember the unpleasant things," Kitty said ruefully. The gloomy weather had awakened some similarly gloomy streak in her own nature. "But boredom in Bath does not seem so terrible as boredom in Meryton, though I know it is horrid of me to say so—and as for the other unpleasant things—"

She fell silent, and gazed listlessly out the window. Mary bit her lip.

"Kitty," she said, carefully, "do you still think often of Mr. Price?"

For a long moment there was no reply, and Mary began to think of how she might change the subject, though she could not think of any easy way to raise her sister's spirits. Spirits-raising had never been a skill of Mary's. But then,

"_Yes_," Kitty burst out, bitterly. "And I do not _wish_ to. And sometimes I go a full day without thinking of him, but then the next day he is there again in my thoughts. When I am in a ballroom and a gentleman is flirting with me, _he_ is all I see. Or sometimes when I am about to fall asleep, I think very suddenly of that last morning, when he was so unkind to me, and then I feel very ashamed and hot all over and cannot fall asleep for another half-hour. I try not to speak of him, to Maria or Mamma or anybody, and I try not to think of him either, but I cannot help it. And I do not understand why!"

This last was half-shouted in a very plaintive tone, and Kitty gave a surreptitious sniffle.

Mary regarded her seriously. "I am afraid," she ventured, "that I have very little experience in this area, and so I do not know what advice to offer you. But I do not think it is natural that you should forget about him entirely. Your—experience—with that gentleman may be said to be one of the more significant experiences of your life. Thus, I imagine, it shall not readily fade from your memory."

She would have said more, but did not know what else to say. Kitty sniffled again.

"I suppose it _was_ very significant," she said, her voice wavering. "But as to the rest, I think it unfair indeed that I should be so haunted by him. I did not think of him half so much after he left Bath, though everything was then so recent and there were so many things that might have reminded me of him. It is very unfair that I should be obliged to think of him _now_, when we are at home in a place where he has never even set foot, and I should have no cause to think of him ever again."

"Perhaps," Mary said, "you thought of him less in Bath, because your days were more occupied. Here, we are quieter than we have been in some time, and you have not a temperament bred for quiet."

Kitty sighed. "Perhaps," she said, but she sounded quite dissatisfied with the idea. Mary swallowed, and looked away uncomfortably. The sisters sat in silence for a few moments.

"But," Kitty began again, at length, "and this is very wrong of me, I suspect—even with all of _that_, even though it was the scene of so many very unpleasant moments, and moments that seemed pleasant at the time but now make me shudder to think of them—even with all of those points against it, I cannot help wishing we were now in Bath and not here in Meryton."

"We always wish for that which is most unattainable," Mary said gently, relieved to be back on somewhat steadier ground. "Did you never miss Meryton while you were in Bath?"

"No," Kitty said, "never."

Mary frowned. "You never missed Papa, or Jane, or Aunt Phillips, or Maria?"

"Oh," Kitty said, "I missed _them_, but it was in a very different sort of way. I wished that they would come to Bath and be with us there; but now I wish we could all go to Bath, and leave Meryton behind."

"Well," Mary said, a little stiffly, "I suppose our experiences were very different. I wished often, while we were in Bath, to come back to Hertfordshire."

"I know you did," Kitty said, for the first time giving her sister a small smile. "And that is the difference between us, Mary."

Mary returned the smile tentatively. "At any rate," she said, "you shall have your wish granted in a few months' time; and after that, Rosamond shall invite you to London with her. I imagine London shall suit you even better than Bath."

There was a time when Kitty, fed upon stories of the fashionable _ton_ and other London fascinations, would have agreed with her; but now, she could not imagine that it would be so. Thinking of London only made her think of Mr. Price again, and everything that he had once promised her. But she did not say so. "Let us hope that it is a double invitation," she said instead, with a mischevious grin, "for I am sure London shall suit _you_ even better than it shall suit _me_. That is where Robert Hart is to be found, after all."

Mary pursed her lips, but was glad to see that her sister's good humor was somewhat recovered.

The rain continued falling, gentle drops sliding down the windowpanes and landing quietly on the eaves; and before very much longer, the air outside grew colder, and the raindrops turned into soft little snowflakes that spread white over the grass, only to melt away when the sun rose the next morning.

* * *

_28 November_

_Greenside Cottage_

_Larkhall, Somersetshire_

_Dear Miss Bennet,_

_I hope this message finds you, and all of your family, well and happy._

_Your letter of the 15__th__ was most gratefully received, for it arrived upon a day that was particularly bleak and cold, and lifted my spirits very quickly. I must beg your pardon for not replying more promptly, but my duties have kept me from you longer than I should have liked._

_I was sorry to hear that you did not enjoy the recent ball in Meryton so much as you had expected. However, I do not entirely believe your statement that you should have enjoyed it the more if I had been there—I am afraid that my presence would indeed have contributed very little to your happiness, for I am not a fine dancer and not particularly interesting to listen to unless, it seems, I am speaking from the pulpit, which I know should particularly displease you in a ballroom. But you are kind to say so. I hope that the next Meryton assembly meets with your approval, though I shall not be at that one, either. (I am confident that you shall enjoy yourself in spite of my absence.)_

_If I may be permitted to speak of sermons a little longer, I am proud to report that I have not yet, at least, had the experience of boring anyone to sleep. I am glad to know that I may therefore rest assured of your approval, so long as everyone in my congregation manages to remain awake every Sunday._

_Are you enjoying _The Haunted Tower_? Miss Hart was good enough to loan me her copy when my sisters and I called at Hart House yesterday, but Cecilia begged me to let her have it first, and so I have not yet had an opportunity to begin it. (I only hope that Louisa and Diana do not claim it from Cecilia once she has finished, as is their wont—Dr. Blackburn has an excellent sermon on "small selfishness" with which, perhaps, I ought to bore them.) Miss Hart's opinion on the book was largely positive, though she did have one or two criticisms to offer, which I was studiously instructed not to share with you, for fear of spoiling the ending. I should be interested to hear how your judgment compares to hers, when you have finished it yourself._

_I may report that Miss Hart does not yet have the harried look which I often see upon the faces of brides-to-be; I suppose the wedding and its preparations are still adequately distant, or perhaps her temperament easily conceals her anxiety. Whatever the case, it was good to see her yesterday (for it seems to me that I have not seen as much of her as I could have liked, in recent days), and the party could only have been improved by the addition of yourself._

_Indeed, if I may speak freely, there have been several moments in the past weeks during which I have wished for your company—it seems a long time since you and your family were here in Bath, and I look forward to your return in the spring (if indeed you are able to attend Miss Hart's wedding, which I earnestly hope is the case)._

_I hope that your journey to Pemberley is blessed with the finest of weather, and that you reach your sister's house in perfect safety. I hope, too, that your family celebrations are all amusement and happiness, with none of those petty annoyances that seem to arise whenever _my_ family finds itself all together in one or two rooms._

_I am afraid that I must end here, for Dr. Blackburn has sent for me, and I must away with haste. Good-bye, Miss Bennet, and all of my best wishes to yourself and your family._

_Yours very sincerely,_

_Oliver Finch_


	22. Chapter 22

The Longbourn family could never manage to do anything quietly—not even when the two young ladies of the household did their best to behave sensibly and calmly in all things—not so long as the lady of the house maintained such a habit of nervous attacks when she could not have her way, and of regarding every minor problem or annoyance as a disaster of the greatest proportion. And so their preparations to leave Longbourn for Pemberley, in the beginning of December, were conducted in a sort of ongoing uproar.

Mrs. Bennet packed and repacked her own trunks at least six times, and instructed everybody else to do the same, and despaired of the state of the roads (which were really very good, for that season), and alternated between begging Jane and Mr. Bingley to stay behind at Netherfield for the sake of Jane's condition, and begging them to come along, "for it should not be the same at Christmas without you there, and I could not bear to have you so far away, Jane—not when I must already give up seeing my little Lydia ever again in my life!"

(The Bingleys had already privately decided that they would indeed spend Christmastide at Pemberley, for Mrs. Bingley's confinement would not come for some months yet; and there was such fondness between the Darcy and Bingley households that they could not have borne to stay away, any more than Mrs. Bennet could have borne Christmas without them.)

It was so busy at Longbourn that Kitty took to visiting Lucas Lodge and Netherfield whenever she could. Even Mary gave up on practicing in the breakfast-room, for she could hardly manage to sit down at the pianoforte before Mrs. Bennet would descend upon her, demanding why she was not doing something more useful. In this way passed the days before their departure from Longbourn. It was a great relief to everybody when they were all at last seated in the carriage (one of Mr. Bingley's, which he had very kindly lent to them; he and his lady were to take another, and travel just behind) with home at their backs, and Pemberley ahead.

"I do hope our trunks are secured tightly enough," Mrs. Bennet fretted, peering anxiously out the window. "Perhaps I ought to stop the coachman, and have him tie them again."

"You shall do no such thing, cherished wife," Mr. Bennet replied mildly; "you have nothing to do now except sit and be still, for at last our journey has been taken out of your hands, and there are no more preparations or adjustments or commotions you can make."

"Well, Mr. Bennet," Mrs. Bennet sniffed, "if your trunk falls and breaks and all your things are strewn about the road and lost, on _your_ head be it."

"I will bear the burden of responsibility very agreeably," her husband answered.

Mary and Kitty were silent. Mary had packed several books for the journey, into which she had already delved to avoid her parents' bickering; and Kitty was gazing absently out the window, her thoughts having wandered past Pemberley and onto Bath, where, in her mind, it was springtime already. (Even in the commotion, she had remembered to write to Mr. Finch with the direction for Pemberley, so that their correspondence could continue over the holiday.)

Despite its doubtful beginnings, the journey offered no more than the usual irritations of traveling in winter—the cold, and one or two icy patches just outside Eversholt, which made Mrs. Bennet moan and clutch at her husband's arm in fright. There were a few flurries of snow along the way, growing thicker as they traveled further north, but they were little inconvenienced, and passed two days upon the road in almost perfect comfort.

Nevertheless everybody was very glad to see the little high street of Lambton rise before them in the early afternoon of the second day. The two carriages rattled cheerfully on the cobblestones, and the villagers looked up with interest, for it was not often that fine carriages passed through the village, unless they bore the Darcy coat of arms. From Lambton it was only a short distance until they passed into the tall quiet woods surrounding Pemberley, broken every so often by glimpses of wide fields, green in summer but now white and glittering with snow. The road curved gently through the trees, crossing icy little streams and brooks, and now and then they startled a rabbit or a fox and, once, a large hart, who bounded away with great haste.

What joy it was, to come around a corner and at last see Pemberley standing nobly on its sloping lawn, with the pale green frozen lake spread out before! Mrs. Bennet let out a very contented sigh, for she never tired of seeing the evidence of her daughters' wealth—and while Netherfield was certainly impressive, it was nothing to Pemberley. "What a fine prospect," she declared happily, "the finest in England, I shouldn't wonder." Then she turned shrewdly to her younger child. "Would you not like to be married to a rich gentleman, Kitty, if he could provide for you such a house?"

Kitty smiled, but did not reply. In truth she could not imagine herself as the lady of such an estate; it seemed a great deal to manage.

"Let Kitty alone, my dear," Mr. Bennet said, "and Mary, for that matter—let them enjoy their Christmastide in peace, and once the New Year has come, you may pester them as much as you wish."

Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips and turned to look out the window again.

It was only a few more minutes before the carriages were drawing up before the grand doors. The Pemberley family was there to greet them, wreathed in smiles—that is, Elizabeth was wreathed in smiles, while Georgiana hung back a little, smiling rather more hesitantly, and Mr. Darcy stood beside his wife with something of a welcoming look to his stern features. Though he loved his wife beyond all doubt, Mr. Darcy had never entirely got over his apprehensions concerning her family; and as a gentleman who prized his peace, and that of his household, the prospect of a monthlong visit from the noisy Mrs. Bennet and two of her sillier daughters (for of course Mr. Darcy could not be expected to know of the changes which had been wrought in those young ladies since their last visit to Pemberley) did not fill him with much joy.

But he met them all as agreeably as could be expected, with many bows and even one or two smiles; and of course he embraced Mr. Bingley as a brother, while Jane and Elizabeth clasped each other very gladly, for it had been long since their last meeting. Kitty was happy to see Georgiana again, though she was rather disappointed that her friend only curtsied to her—it seemed as though all of the intimacy that had once been enjoyed, almost a year ago now, had again faded due to Miss Darcy's natural timidity.

"And where is dear little Sophia?" Mrs. Bennet cried, her voice carrying over the happy buzz of greetings and news. "Are we not to catch sight of her?"

"Sophia is sleeping, Mamma," Mrs. Darcy replied calmly, "and very glad we are of it."

Mrs. Bennet was a little disappointed not to find her grandchild waiting upon the doorstep; but she was a mother herself, and understood well enough the preciousness of a child's sleep—particularly when that child was in the habit of causing a great deal of trouble while awake, as more than one of her own had been. And so she conceded that little Sophia must not be disturbed.

It was too cold to stand outside talking for very much longer, and so they hurried indoors, leaving the servants to take down their trunks. The house had already been decorated for the season: strands of tinsel and ivy were twined about the balustrades, while fresh green pine boughs scented the air pleasantly. Sprigs of holly and mistletoe were nestled in every corner.

"I am sure you miss Robert Hart very much _now_," Kitty whispered teasingly to Mary, nodding at the mistletoe hung over one of the doorways. Mary glanced in that direction and flushed very red from her hair to her collar, fixing her sister with a scolding frown to cover her embarrassment.

"Do not be vulgar, Katherine," she hissed. Kitty only laughed, and looped her arm through her sister's. Elizabeth, glancing behind, witnessed this show of fondness with no small amount of surprise, but hid it with a smile.

"What lovely decorations, Lizzie," Jane commented, as they came into one of the many fine sitting-rooms. A cheerful fire and hot cider and cakes were awaiting the travelers.

"They _are_ lovely; but I am afraid I cannot claim credit for them. They are all Georgiana's doing."

"Everything looks beautiful, Miss Darcy," Jane said gently. Miss Darcy blushed a little at this praise.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bingley," was her quiet response. "I have always enjoyed the Christmas season."

"And who does not?" Mrs. Bennet cried genially. "There is no finer season. There are hardly so many amusements, and causes for celebration, in all the rest of the year combined. For my part I should stay at home all the time if I could, but it is always so fine to see the young people enjoy themselves at parties and assemblies—do you not agree, Mr. Bennet? Are there to be any such amusements while we are here, Lizzie?" she asked, not awaiting her husband's response. "I am sure Kitty and Mary would much like to dance, and Miss Darcy as well. Would you not like to dance, girls?"

"Not particularly," Mary muttered very low, and Kitty grinned at her.

"Unless with one _particular_ gentleman," she said even lower, and Mary glared at her, though there was not much real ire in it. She was too glad of her sister's good humor to be really much annoyed at her teasing.

"In fact," Mrs. Darcy said, smiling at the younger ladies, "Darcy and I had thought that we might give a ball of our own, this year. Would that agree with you, Kitty?

"Oh, to be sure," Kitty replied cheerfully, doubting very much that the scheme had been in any way Mr. Darcy's idea, "that would suit me very well, if it would suit everybody else."

Elizabeth was a little taken aback that her younger sister's words were delivered quite calmly, without any giggles or shrieks or squeals of delight.

"Are there a great many single gentlemen in the neighborhood?" Mrs. Bennet asked, all eagerness. "For as you know nothing came of our time in Bath—"

"Mrs. Bennet," her husband interjected warningly.

"I am sure there are enough single gentlemen to provide us partners for one evening," Kitty said, laughing, "and beyond that, Mamma, you need not be concerned."

"Kitty or Miss Darcy may lay claim to whichever gentleman is meant for me," Mary put in agreeably, "for as you know, I am not overly fond of dancing, nor am I very good at it."

"Nay, Miss Bennet," Mr. Bingley protested, smiling, "I will not allow you to be so hard upon yourself; you danced very well with me at the Watsons' ball in November."

"Well enough, perhaps, to stand up once," Mary allowed, "for I had more practice than I should have liked while we were in Bath."

"Did you attend a great many balls and parties?" Elizabeth asked. "I recall that such entertainments are quite abundant in that city."

"Indeed they are," Mrs. Bennet declared, happy to have a share in the conversation again; "we dined out every evening, and danced at least twice per week, and spent every other night in company; and Mary went to a great many concerts."

"Does it not sound exhausting, Lizzie?" Mr. Bennet asked wryly, raising an eyebrow at his favored child, who laughed; but at the same time, Georgiana turned to Mary with shining eyes and asked, "Oh, did you?"

"I was fortunate enough to be invited several times," Mary replied. "Dr. Hart and his family are most generous."

"I loved the concerts," Georgiana said; "it was my favorite part of our stay in Bath. What did you see performed?"

So began a lengthy conversation about music—perhaps the first true conversation ever held between Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy—which resulted in their both coming to know and like each other rather better, for until now they had never had much to do with each other. (Indeed, listening to Georgiana discuss Haydn and Boccherini, Mary had a feeling which reminded her of nothing so much as the moment when she had realized that, despite her pretty face and pleasant smiles, Rosamond Hart was no fool at all.)

Kitty was glad enough to forfeit her sister's company, for she was pleased to see Georgiana drawn out, and Mary smiling and talking agreeably; and she stood from the couch where they were all seated together and went over to sit by Jane and Lizzie and her mother, as the gentlemen gathered by the fireplace. Mrs. Bennet was still talking of their time in Bath, for despite its disappointments, it was a subject of which she could never tire. It was so amusing and fashionable, and her having been there spoke so well of her circumstances, after all.

"You and Mr. Bingley ought to go to Bath, Jane," she was saying, "as soon as ever you can—once the child comes, I mean. There really is no place in the world like it. I have never in my life seen so many fashionable people in one place! We were so well entertained, and could have amused ourselves there for years. And of course your sisters made so many friends—they still write back and forth to their friends in Bath, Lizzie, is not that wonderful?"

"Wonderful indeed," her daughter agreed, laughing, "that Kitty can sit still long enough to pen a full letter." There was no real malice in her words, and Kitty smiled.

"I am become a very fine correspondent, Lizzie," she replied, "and I daresay you would be very proud of me."

"Of course it is too bad that something more did not come from our time there," Mrs. Bennet went on, "you know of course what I mean—I truly thought we might expect something from Robert Hart (he is Dr. Hart's youngest son, I do not know if you are much acquainted with him, but he is a decent enough sort of gentleman), but of course that all ended in disappointment. And Kitty—"

But here she abruptly fell silent, and frowned darkly. The saga of Mr. Price could not but rouse her anger at that gentleman (and perhaps, in some small unrecognized way, at herself for encouraging Kitty to accept his advances—but this she would not have acknowledged, and certainly she had not learned much from the experience), and she did not like to speak of him, for she found the affair even more troubling than Mary's failure to secure Mr. Hart.

Kitty, too, felt the familiar little pang in her breast at her mother's hasty pause, and suddenly the afternoon seemed far less pleasant and cheerful.

"Well, at any rate," Mrs. Bennet said, "you must know that I am now looking to you, Lizzie, and to you, Jane, to help me find husbands for the girls. I am sure you have a great many rich men among your acquaintance. What of Colonel Fitzwilliam's elder brother, the earl," she said suddenly, struck by inspiration, "he is yet unmarried, is he not? When do the Fitzwilliams arrive? Is the whole family to join us at Pemberley?"

"In fact Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam will not arrive until almost the New Year," Elizabeth said, exchanging a look of some exasperation with her sister Jane, "for they traditionally spend Christmas at Hornsley House with the colonel's family. I do not think the earl's plans are yet quite settled."

"Then you must write to him, and tell him to come to Pemberley. I am sure he would like to see his cousin again, and to spend more time with his brother. And if there happens to be a pretty young lady in the question—"

"Nay, Mamma," Elizabeth said, with a tolerant smile, "you must spare me the indignity of begging a husband for my sister, and Kitty the indignity of being offered up like some prize."

"There is no _indignity_," Mrs. Bennet snapped, "it is nothing more than expanding our acquaintance, and what is the point in doing so if not to find husbands for your sisters? Or Kitty, at least," she added darkly. "No, Lizzie, I am determined that Kitty shall marry the earl. He is precisely the sort of husband I should want for her. Should you not be proud to see your sister made a countess?"

"I do not want to marry the earl, Mamma," Kitty broke in, "and anyway Mrs. Fitzwilliam seems to think that there is some other young lady in the case—someone in London. She told me so when we were in Bath."

"Are they engaged?" Mrs. Bennet demanded. At Kitty's shrug, she went on, "Then it does not matter. Let him come to Pemberley, my dears, and Kitty shall have him soon enough, I warrant."

"But I do not _want_ him," Kitty repeated, though her mother was not listening.

"Why cannot they simply come to know one another as friends, and let love unfold if it may?" Jane asked hopefully. Elizabeth laughed.

"That will never do for Mamma, Jane—you must know that. Marriage is to come first, and love second, if at all. That the order was reversed in _our_ cases was only fortunate coincidence."

"Oh Lizzie, you know that is not it," Mrs. Bennet said impatiently. "I only think Kitty ought to have the good sense to fall in love with somebody who is rich and noble, with a great many connections, and a town-house and a country house at least."

"We all ought to have such sense, to be sure," Elizabeth replied teasingly, "but unfortunately there is not much sense to be had when it comes to love and marriage—only, as our dear Charlotte once told me, a great deal of chance."

Kitty could attest well enough to there not being much sense in love, but she had nothing to say to the rest of her sister's statement; and anyway she did not feel much like talking just now, with the gloom of remembering Mr. Price settling upon her again. She began to wish that she had stayed by Mary and Georgiana.

But her eldest sisters soon soothed her spirits, by gently guiding their mother away from the present subject. Lizzie told several tales of Sophia's mischief (for though she was still but a very young child, she had her mother's spirit). News of Meryton was shared, and news of Bath and Derbyshire. Jane told them of the plans to install new wall-papers and new furnishings in the Netherfield nursery (which had not been used in many years, to be sure), and of all of the other adjustments which must be made in that household to prepare for the new arrival. She rested her hand upon her belly as she spoke, her cheeks pink with happiness; she had already grown significantly rounder, more so even than Mrs. Bennet had expected, in the past month or so.

In this way passed an agreeable hour, and Kitty began to feel her melancholy dissipate. How foolish it was, to sigh over Mr. Price and all the unpleasantness connected with him, when she was seated in a room with all her family about her, and only joy and amusement to look forward to in the days ahead! All the same, she could not help wishing her mother had not come so close to speaking of him. Until now, she had felt quite safe from his influence; but now it was as though his shadow stood in the room with them, smirking at her.

It was therefore something of a relief when Mrs. Bennet declared her nerves quite exhausted from the journey, and excused herself to rest for awhile before dinner. Jane, too, admitted herself a little tired, and went to her room. The party seemed to be breaking up, and Kitty was glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs; for two days of sitting in a carriage, followed by another hour of sitting in a drawing-room, did not entirely agree with a young lady of her lively and active temperament.

"Lizzie," she said, "is it all right if I explore a little? It is such a long time since I have been at Pemberley, and I should like to refresh my memory—and admire Miss Darcy's wonderful decorations," she added, for that young lady had come to stand beside her sister-in-law.

"Of course," Elizabeth answered. "I would walk with you, but I am afraid I must go see to Sophia; she should be waking soon."

"I do not mind," Kitty said. "Perhaps Mary may walk with me, at least as far as the music-room and the library, for," she added, with a little laugh, "those are the two places in which she shall surely make her home while we are here. Would you like to walk a bit, Mary?"

Mary agreed, for though she was by nature rather more sedentary than Kitty, the past days had left her eager for some exercise; and so the two young ladies set off through the house.

* * *

Mrs. Bennet was fond of declaring Pemberly "the finest house in the world," or at least the finest house in England. Of course it may be supposed that her estimation was significantly colored by the fact of its belonging to her own daughter; she certainly should not have cared half so much for the place if some other rich lady had been its mistress. In spite of this bias, however, it must be agreed that Pemberley was certainly a _very_ fine house, finer even than Netherfield, or Lucas Lodge, or any of the other grander houses in which any of the Bennet family had ever spent time.

The room in which they dined that evening was very grand indeed, with arching ceilings and fluted columns, and half a dozen servants standing at attention by the elegantly papered walls. It was a merry party, both Jane and Mrs. Bennet revived by their afternoon's rest, and everything seemed warm and cheerful in the glow of the candlelight. The food had the taste of luxury after their two days of dining at roadside inns, and the wine was fine and rich. The geniality of the afternoon had expanded into the evening, and everybody was in their best spirits. Even Mr. Darcy smiled twice over the course of the meal, a sight which Kitty noted with great interest.

After they dined, the ladies repaired to the parlor (a different parlor than the one in which they had sat earlier, for Pemberley was full of fine sitting-rooms, as Mrs. Bennet delighted in pointing out) while the gentlemen went to smoke. Mrs. Darcy immediately invited Mary to play for them, which her sister did with obvious pleasure, and they enjoyed two songs before Mary relinquished her seat at the pianoforte.

"I think your playing has improved a great deal," Lizzie remarked, when Mary came to sit beside her. "Though of course it was always very good—certainly superior to _mine_, or any of our sisters', for you were the only one of us who ever took the trouble to practice. Yet it seems even better now than it was. Did you have the opportunity of practicing much while you were in Bath?"

"Indeed I did," Mary replied. "Rosamond Hart was very good in offering me the use of her instrument whenever I should want it, and I confess I probably indulged myself more often than she would have liked."

"Mary was at Hart House almost every day," Kitty reported, grinning, "and in the evenings she would go to concerts with them, and so she spent most of her days in some musical fashion or other."

"And you would think, Lizzie, would you not, that so much time spent in the company of Robert Hart might have some useful effect," Mrs. Bennet put in, her discontent obvious and her tongue loosened by the wine from the dinner-table, "but indeed it has not been so. Mary is no more engaged now than she was when we left Meryton, though _she_ still seems to think she has some chance at catching him." She snorted, and Mary glanced away.

"Would you like to marry Mr. Hart, Mary?" Lizzie asked, looking curiously at her younger sister, for she had rather unkindly assumed that her mother's letters from Bath had been full of exaggeration, if not invention, where Mary's prospects were concerned.

"Mr. Hart and I parted on excellent terms," Mary said steadily, "and have maintained a friendly correspondence since I have been at home. If I were obliged to marry tomorrow, I should prefer to marry him; but I would rather not be obliged to marry just now."

"No indeed," Mrs. Bennet said, her tone full of scorn, "not until you see your friend wedded and made mistress of a very fine estate, and begin to envy her happiness. And by then it will be too late, Miss Mary, for you and Robert Hart will not have seen one another for many months, and his eye will have been caught by some other young lady who is not so foolish when it comes to securing him. No, my dear, you must give up entirely on Robert Hart."

"But if this marriage is meant to be," Jane interjected earnestly, "then indeed it shall. You must remember, Mamma, that Charles and I were separated for nearly a year, and I had long given up hope of ever seeing him again, when he returned to Meryton and asked for my hand."

Mrs. Bennet sighed, and patted her eldest daughter's hand fondly. "But you have the advantage of beauty, Jane, and so _I_ never wondered at his coming back to Netherfield to marry you; but Mary is not so handsome as you are. And there is no shortage of beauties in Bath, and so I fear Robert Hart's memory of Mary shall soon be outshone."

Kitty's brow was furrowed angrily, and she said, "You do Mary a very great disservice, Mamma, and Jane too, in thinking that a gentleman can only fall in love with them if he thinks them handsome, as though there is nothing more to be offered than beauty; and you do Robert a very great disservice, in thinking him liable to be swayed by any pretty face. Mary would not like him half so well as she does if he were so shallow—would you, Mary?"

"Indeed I would not," Mary said quietly, but her face was burning. She had expected her mother to take her to task in front of her elder sisters, for after all discretion was never a strong suit of Mrs. Bennet's, but it was unpleasant all the same.

"Georgiana," Lizzie said, seeing her sister's discomfort, "will you not play us something? That pleasant air you were playing the other day, I think, might do nicely."

Under other circumstances, Miss Darcy might have balked at the request, for she was not accustomed to playing for such a large audience; but at this moment she gladly escaped to the safety of the pianoforte, so great was her awkwardness at having been caught in a family quarrel. As the song lifted into the air of the parlor, Mrs. Bennet was obliged to hold her tongue for a few minutes, though it took visible effort to do so.

The gentlemen came in while Georgiana was playing, and everybody applauded her very graciously, though she blushed at the attention. And then the nurse came in, holding little Sophia by the hand, and nobody thought any further of Mary and Robert Hart, or Kitty and Mr. Price, or any of the other pairings which had, in their own very different ways, brought Mrs. Bennet such displeasure.

Sophia Darcy had indeed grown a great deal over the past year, as children of that age are liable to do; she had been a chubby infant when last the Bennets had been at Pemberley, and now she was a chubby child of one, already a little tall for her age, her dark curls grown long and thick and her gray eyes large and fringed by very full lashes. Mrs. Bennet cooed delightedly over her grandchild, and eagerly declared that she would be the greatest beauty in England by the time she reached fifteen; and her parents, pride in all their looks, gently encouraged Sophia to go and kiss her aunts and her uncle, and her grandparents as well.

The child, though she was a Darcy in looks, seemed to be very much a Bennet in temperament: she had not the infant shyness so often possessed by very young children, and did not hide in her mother's skirts, but instead smiled and laughed and clapped her hands and named all of the objects in the room whose names she could pronounce, and, at her mother's coaxing, imitated the sounds of a kitty and a doggy and a horsey; and once she even curtsied, to the great delight of everybody present, though the effort caused her to overbalance and sit down rather hard upon the carpet. She was a sweet babe, clever and bright, with a spark in her gray eyes that reminded Kitty very much of Lizzie. (More than once, as little Sophia held the attention of the room, Kitty caught sight of Jane watching with a soft smile, her hands resting gently on the curve of her belly.)

But at length the hour arrived when the very youngest Miss Darcy must be taken up to bed; and Mrs. Bingley, despite the rest she had enjoyed that afternoon, began yawning apologetically. The hour was not so very late, but the weariness of travel began to set upon the Meryton party, and so it was not much longer before the company broke up and went to their separate rooms.

The bedroom in which Mary had been established was very pretty, with roses twining elegantly up the papered walls and around the border of the expensive carpet. The pattern made her think of Rosamond, which made her think of Robert, which made her feel again the embarrassment of hearing her mother discourse upon her failure to secure an engagement. But she sternly banished this last from her mind. It would not do, she told herself, for her thoughts of Robert to become mixed up with her mother's disappointed expectations; she must endeavor to think of him only as himself, or else she would never be able to read her feelings when the time came for her to do so.

A knock upon the door pulled Mary from her thoughts, and at her call, it opened and Kitty's head poked through the frame. "I hoped you would not be abed yet," Kitty said, coming into the room and closing the door behind her. She still wore her day-dress, though the back had been unlaced.

"Not at all; in fact I had thought to sit by the fire for awhile," Mary replied. Kitty grinned.

"With _Emma Courtney_, no doubt; but I am sorry, Mary, I must disturb you for a little while, for I do not feel I can sleep just yet." She curled comfortably into one of the chairs that stood before the hearth, and Mary took the other. "Has this not been a most agreeable day?"

"Very agreeable."

"I am glad not to be in the carriage any longer; I felt I should go mad if I were obliged to sit still for another full day. Lizzie and Mr. Darcy seem very happy, do they not?"

"They always seem happy," Mary agreed, "and so I truly think them. Both of our elder sisters were fortunate in making good matches."

"_That_ is the sort of fortune I should hope for, if ever I were to marry. I do not think I entirely realized, before, how permanent a thing marriage is. A gentleman may be handsome now, but he may not always be so; nor may he always be rich; yet if he is a good gentleman, he shall always be good."

"Or at least there is a higher likelihood of his remaining good than rich or handsome," Mary affirmed.

Her sister, leaning on the arm of the chair, rested her cheek upon her hand. "I am sure Robert will always be good," she offered, and Mary smiled. "Do you miss him, Mary?—Nay, don't answer," she said, "I already know that you do. Indeed I do too. I was thinking, tonight, that the only thing which should make our party more merry, was if the Harts and the Fitzwilliams and the Finches might be here with us."

"That would make it a large party indeed, but certainly very pleasant."

"And then Mamma would not be able to pester you so," Kitty added, "about how you and Robert are not yet properly engaged." She sighed. "But she would still pester _me_, unless Colonel Fitzwilliam's brother happened to make up one of the party."

"And even if he did," Mary agreed, "I am certain she should make the argument that you were not trying hard enough to make him fall in love with you. We must admit to ourselves, Katherine, that our mother shall never be happy until we are both safely married."

Kitty snorted. "Nay, I daresay she shall not even be happy then. For it is likely that we will live too far away from Meryton for her comfort, or our husbands will not be as rich as their brothers-in-law, or we will not have children soon enough to please her. Or some other such thing. No, Mary, it is in Mamma's nature to fret—but though I am well aware of it, it does not make it any easier to bear."

This reflected the turn which Mary's thoughts had begun to take before Kitty had come in, and she started to say so; but at that moment there came another, softer knock upon the door, and at Mary's answer, Miss Darcy opened it and looked through.

"Oh," she said, blushing a little, "forgive me, Miss Bennet, Miss Kitty. I did not mean to disturb you; I only wished to ask if there was anything else which might be done for your comfort."

"Nothing at all," Kitty said expansively, throwing out a welcoming arm, "except for you to come in and sit with us awhile, if you have no more pressing duties."

Georgiana's blush did not fade, but she stepped tentatively into the room, and came to sit upon the little couch that stood at the foot of the bed, facing the fireplace. Kitty smiled at her.

"Mary and I have fallen into the habit of talking for a little while before bed each night," she said. "It came about because we were obliged to share a room in Bath, which at first we both found exceedingly annoying, but then it was rather pleasant."

"It must have been very pleasant," Georgiana agreed.

"And now we have become the very image of sisterly intimacy," Kitty went on, laughing, "though we seldom agree on anything."

"I always wished that I had a sister," Miss Darcy said, and then bit her lip. "That is—I mean—Fitzwilliam was always very attentive, and he quite dotes upon me. I could not wish for a better brother. But, well, he is so much older than I, and I do not think that having a brother is quite like having a sister."

"I could not say," Kitty said, "for I have no brother. Perhaps if I did, Mamma would not have such reason to resent our cousins the Collinses. But you need not fear, for you have plenty of sisters _now_; your brother has kindly provided you with a whole family of them." She laughed, and Miss Darcy smiled.

"That is very kind of you, Miss Kitty."

"Nay, that will not do; it has troubled me all day. You called me _Kitty_ when I was here last, and I would have you do so now."

Georgiana blushed. "Thank you, Kitty. I did not wish to presume—"

Kitty waved a dismissive hand. "_That_ does not matter; there is no such thing as presumption between family. At least, not between family who are fond of one another. And that is Mary," she added, indicating her sister, "not Miss Bennet, as you seem to think. Not even Robert Hart calls her Miss Bennet. They are secretly engaged, you know."

Georgiana's eyes went wide, and Mary lifted a sardonic eyebrow at her sister. "It is not an engagement, nor shall it be a secret much longer, if you insist upon telling everybody."

"Georgiana isn't _everybody_; she is family, as we only just established. And I thought I should tell her so that she could laugh at Mamma with us. Mamma thinks Mary and Robert will never marry," she said, in a confidential tone, "and so we think it will be a very fine joke when they announce their engagement, whenever they decide to do so."

"In fact our mother has been made aware of the standing of my relationship with Robert Hart," Mary corrected her, rather stiffly. "She simply refuses to believe it."

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Mamma thinks Robert shall jilt Mary for some other young lady," she said, "as I am sure you heard. But Mamma does not know Robert half so well as I do, and she is quite mistaken. He is too good a gentleman to do such a thing, and I am convinced that he loves Mary _very_ much. Look at her blush!" she said, happily, as Mary did just that. "But that is enough of Robert Hart; are _you_ in love with anybody, Georgiana?"

"I confess I am not."

"No indeed? There is no handsome country squire in the neighborhood who has stolen your heart?"

The young lady flushed, but shook her head.

"Well," Kitty said, decidedly, "you are of the age where you ought to be falling in love, and so we will have to find somebody suitable."

A hint of alarm crept into Georgiana's dark eyes, but neither of the Bennets noticed it, for Mary was saying, "You and Georgiana are of the same age, Kitty."

"Yes, but I have given up on love; _you_ know that, Mary. And now you have found your suitor, so I must direct my efforts elsewhere. Do not worry," she said to Georgiana, "I am excellent at making matches for other people. I knew that Mary loved Robert even before she did."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Let us talk of something else, Kitty, or Georgiana shall think us very silly indeed."

"Very well," Kitty said, obligingly, "let us talk of little Sophia. You must tell us all about her, Georgiana, and how she has grown, and how sweet and clever she is, and so on. It is your duty as an aunt to speak, and our duty as aunts to listen."

Georgiana smiled, and accommodated Kitty's request. They spoke for another half-hour about their dear little niece, until at length Mary began to drowse against the back of her chair, and Kitty, with a fond look at her sister, declared that they must all go to bed or they should be no good in the morning.

Kitty's last thought, as she laid her head upon the downy pillow, was the unexpected realization Mr. Finch might do very well for Georgiana; and though the idea had a faint glow of inspiration, she found that it did not please her as much as it should. She closed her eyes to visions of Oliver Finch escorting Georgiana Darcy upon his arm, which swiftly turned to visions of herself escorted by Mr. Price; and then it was only Mr. Price, and he was smirking at her, his face twisted unpleasantly as it had been on that last morning in the drawing-room at Henry Street.

Her eyes flew open, and she turned onto her side, directing her gaze out the window. It had begun to snow, and the sight of the large flakes floating gently down to earth soothed her. She closed her eyes once more, and before long fell into a grateful sleep.

Mary's last thought, as she sank comfortably into the soft mattress, was how pretty the snow looked as it drifted past her window. She had not even realized that it was snowing.


	23. Chapter 23

The inhabitants of Pemberley awoke to find the grounds covered with a fresh white blanket, a sight which delighted them all, but particularly little Sophia, whose nurse barely managed to have her fed and dressed before she raced, laughing, out the door. The younger people, once they had breakfasted, were happy to follow the child's example; nobody in the party was yet old or grown-up enough to remain unmoved by the sight of fresh snow.

And so the Miss Bennets' first morning at Pemberley was spent walking and talking along some of the cleared paths that wound through the grounds, admiring the sight of the white-coated branches and laughing when they found that they could not even spot the lake, so buried was it beneath the new snow drifts.

"If ever we do find it," Lizzie said cheerfully, "and can manage to get it cleared, then perhaps we may have some ice-skating before the New Year. Dawson tells us that the ice is grown thick enough."

Kitty's heart leapt at this, though Mary hoped that _she _would not be obliged to don skates.

"I fear I shall be very clumsy upon the ice," Jane laughed, pressing her gloved hand to her belly. Mr. Bingley smiled at her.

"I shall support you, my love, or sit by your side and watch the others, if you'd rather."

Jane returned his smile, and tucked her hands more securely into the crook of his elbow.

At length, however, the walking-party had grown cold enough that even the clear blue sky and the glitter of sun upon the snow began to lose their charms, and they all repaired indoors. There they found a crackling fire awaiting them, and a hot pot of cider, and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, the former occupied with a book and the latter delightedly dandying Sophia upon her knee.

"How wet you all are!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, laughing, as the walkers removed their snow-covered coats and unwrapped their scarves from about their necks. "Take some cider, my dears, and sit by the fire for a time. Is it very cold outside?"

They assured her that it was not, and eagerly helped themselves to cider.

The days passed swiftly at Pemberley, slipping easily from mornings in the sunny breakfast-room to evenings by the fireside.

Mary spent long hours in the library, poring over the Darcys' ever-expanding collection of books; though once she had regretted that there were not very many sermons to be found there, now she found unexpected delights in the books of poetry and fiction that filled the sturdy shelves. (She could not help thinking, from time to time, how much Robert would appreciate the opportunity to browse the library with her—she had unearthed an assortment of antiquated medical texts in one corner that he should surely have liked to examine.)

The Darcys' ball was to be held upon Twelfth Night, so the Fitzwilliams would be in residence as well; and so Kitty took it upon herself to teach Georgiana all of the fashionable dances she had learned in Bath, and one or two country-dances that were particular to Hertfordshire. It was not a difficult task—Georgiana danced well, and learned quickly, and with Mary providing the music, the two young ladies were soon able to dance very fluently together.

"I only hope that my partners in the ballroom possess your ability, Kitty," Georgiana remarked cheerfully, as they moved smoothly about the steps of the quadrille, "or I shall be quite out of my depth."

"It is a sad truth," Kitty said, "that no gentleman ever dances so well as a lady; but I think you shall be all right, Georgiana, for you dance very prettily, and I shall be surprised if your skill cannot mask your partner's lack of it."

Georgiana laughed at this, and she and Kitty spun once more, before curtsying very solemnly to one another and collapsing into chairs on opposite sides of the fireplace. They were in the music-room, and Lizzie sat upon the chaise, Sophia watching the dance excitedly from her lap.

"_I_ shall be surprised," Lizzie said, "if my sisters are not the jewels of the ballroom; between the three of you, you shall have the females of Derbyshire in such dreadful fits of envy."

Sophia clambered down from her mother's lap and began to step and twirl upon the floor in imitation of her aunts; Kitty laughed, and clasped the child's hands to spin her gently. "They may envy us all they please, but Mary and I have no thoughts of stealing their beaux; it is Georgiana who shall be breaking hearts all evening."

"Oh, no," Georgiana said with a blush, "I am sure that is not true."

"If I am no longer required," Mary said, standing from the pianoforte, "I think I will go see if the post has come."

"I shall walk with you," Lizzie said. "Kitty, Georgiana, may I ask you to look after Sophia for a moment?"

The aunts were happy to do so, and set about teaching Sophia as many of the steps as she could manage, which was in truth not very many, for she was only a very young child; and Lizzie caught up Mary's arm as they left the music-room together.

"I have wanted to talk to you," she said, their footsteps echoing in the wide hallway, "for some days now, but I have not found an opportunity."

"Is something the matter?" Mary asked, concerned. Her sister smiled and shook her head.

"Not at all; it is only that I have noticed a difference in our sister Kitty, and in yourself, which intrigues me. It seems your time in Bath has wrought some changes in you both."

"Indeed," Mary said, rather uncertainly, "the experience was most stimulating."

"I think it must have been," Lizzie agreed, "for you, Mary, have smiled and laughed and talked more agreeably than I have ever seen you do before. And Kitty suddenly appears quite grown-up to my eyes; I can scarce believe that she is the same silly girl who used to follow Lydia about so helplessly. She is so much more composed and sensible than she was at our last meeting. Even the prospect of a ball is not enough to reduce her to giggles."

"It must be quite a relief to Mr. Darcy," Mary said, drily, and Lizzie gave a little laugh.

"Indeed I think he is pleasantly surprised to find Christmas at Pemberley so much quieter than he had expected. But come, Mary, you must tell me what has happened to bring about these changes. Kitty has hinted, of course, that the influence of Robert Hart and his family has had a most pleasing effect upon you, and truly I think it so—that is, I think the effect pleasing, though I cannot speak as to its cause. But in Kitty's case—" She shook her head wonderingly. "I had hoped her manners would improve, once she was separated from Lydia. But this is more even than I had imagined."

Mary bit her lip. She was well aware that Kitty did not want their elder sisters, nor their father, to know anything more of Mr. Price than Mrs. Bennet had already related; and though she knew that a large part of Kitty's growing-up, as Elizabeth termed it, had come about as a result of that disappointment, she also knew that, its better consequences aside, the memory of that gentleman and all that had occurred in connection with him still brought Kitty no small amount of pain.

Yet she did not like lying, nor, frankly, was she much good at it. "I think," she said, glibly, "that you are right—that it is to do with being separated from Lydia, and having nobody to giggle and gossip with. And whatever Kitty says about Robert Hart and myself," she added, "it cannot be denied that she spent almost as much time in the company of that family as I did; and Miss Hart is a most calm and rational creature. I think her influence must have helped to curb Kitty's folly."

Lizzie did not look entirely convinced, but she did not say anything else, and they walked in companionable silence to the study, where the mail had been set neatly upon Mr. Darcy's large oak desk.

There was a letter for Kitty from Louisa Finch, which surely meant a note from that lady's brother as well. "Kitty will be pleased," Mary remarked, looking through the other letters. She was happy to recognize Rosamond's clear, fine script on the front of one envelope, and the thickness of the parcel said plainly that a letter from Robert was included within.

"It is rather mortifying," Elizabeth declared, laughing, "when the guests of a house receive more interesting mail than its inhabitants. Now that you are all here at Pemberley, there is nobody in all the rest of the world who cares to write to me."

This was not entirely true; for Elizabeth, in the few short years which she had spent as mistress of Pemberley, had become a popular and admired member of her husband's circle, and not all of the letters upon the desk were letters of business. Kitty would probably have recognized the names, or at least the titles, of some of Lizzie's correspondents; but Mary only smiled and curtsied and excused herself to go and read her letters.

Kitty _was_ pleased when Mary handed her the envelope in Miss Finch's hand, and tore into it with alacrity. It was the first letter she had received from Mr. Finch since she had come to Pemberley, and her own eagerness surprised her. She had not realized how much she had missed him, and for a moment she reflected upon the absurdity of missing someone who was not even really there to begin with.

But she dismissed the thought, and read the letter over once quickly, and then again more slowly, taking the time to think over the news from Bath which was related, and enjoy the cleverness of the gentleman's phrasing, and think on how she might begin her reply to him.

The letter itself need not be reproduced here, for though it was quite long, truly there was nothing in it that was so very profound: it concerned mostly matters relating to their mutual friends, and one or two remarks upon the Christmas season (he, of course, would spend much of the holiday at church, and the rest of it paying calls to the families of his parish), and a very heartfelt enjoinment that Kitty should enjoy a most charming and blessed Christmastide with all her family. _As a curate, _wrote the gentleman, _I suppose my mind ought to be upon the Christian significance of the holiday, and indeed such reflections are never very far from my thoughts at this season; but I must confess to you, Miss Bennet, that this year Christmas Day has seemed to me as little more than a mark upon the calendar denoting how much closer we are to the spring, when you and your family may return to Bath, and I may have the honor of your company and the pleasure of your conversation once again. But I shall end this thought here, for fear of waxing unforgivably poetic, and simply take the opportunity to remind you how gladly your return is anticipated in more than one quarter._

This paragraph, penned in what seemed to Kitty to be a more hesitant hand than the rest of the letter, lit a small comfortable flame in Kitty's breast, to which she carefully paid no attention.

* * *

As the holiday drew closer, the days grew busier: there were preparations to be made for the ball, and for the arrival of the Fitzwilliams; there were calls to be paid to the other families of the neighborhood; there was the Christmas pudding to be made (for Mrs. Bennet, despite being able to keep a cook of her own, had always kept the tradition of making the dish herself, and her girls were always glad to help her); and in the evenings there were songs to be sung and games to be played.

"What an amusing season!" Mrs. Bennet declared warmly, on the evening of the twenty-third, after the young ladies had sung for them. "I declare there is no time of year which I like better. And how glad I am, my dears, that we are all able to be together!"

It was indeed an agreeable scene: the young ladies grouped prettily about the pianoforte, the married couples seated together on couches about the fire, and Sophia curled happily between her grandparents.

"It is good indeed, Lizzie," Mrs. Bennet continued, "that you did not move away to some far-flung place when you married, as did your poor sister Lydia. Newcastle does seem dreadful dull, does it not?"

"I am sure Lydia is capable of enlivening whatever environment she finds herself in," Mr. Bennet put in, with a warning look at his wife over Sophia's head. Elizabeth's attention was upon Georgiana, and there was some hint of concern in her features, though Kitty could not think why _that_ would be.

Mrs. Bennet frowned. "However lively our Lydia may be," she retorted, "it is no good being lively all by yourself, and I am sure the company up there must leave a great deal to be desired. Mr. Darcy," she said, turning to that gentleman, "do you not think you may invite Mr. and Mrs. Wickham to spend Christmas at Pemberley next year?"

Mr. Darcy's face darkened, and suddenly it seemed as though the room was rather colder than it had been before.

"I am afraid that is quite out of the question, Mamma," Lizzie put in hastily, laying her hand gently over her husband's. Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips.

"I do not see why that should be so," she said, a plaintive tone to her voice, "for they are family as much as the rest of us, and I do long to see my poor Lydia again. And Wickham—for you know he is such amusing company. You used to be quite fond of him yourself, Lizzie, when he was in the regiment at Meryton. And now he is your brother, though you seem determined to forget it."

"I confess I _once_ though him agreeable," Elizabeth said, and there was great emphasis upon the word _once_. Georgiana, to Kitty's eyes, looked rather pale, and was staring down at the keys of the pianoforte with what seemed great concentration.

"I am sure Lydia would not care to make the journey, Mamma," Jane interjected. "It is a long way from Newcastle, especially in such a season, and travel is always difficult with small children. It should be most terrible if they were to meet with some unfortunate accident upon the road."

Mrs. Bennet appeared to consider this, and Mrs. Darcy cast a grateful look at her sister.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet said at last, "it is a shame that we may not have a larger party for Christmas; and I am sure Lydia and Mr. Wickham would make us all very merry if they were here. But perhaps by next year Kitty will be married to somebody of high spirits, and they will come to spend Christmas at Pemberley, and that will give us all a great deal of cheer."

Of course she did not mention Mary, whose prospects seemed, to Mrs. Bennet, rather bleaker than they had ever been before.

"I am very cheerful as it is," Mr. Bingley put in, doing his best to sound so, "though I imagine I might be even more so if my young sisters would sing for us once more, for they do it so charmingly."

Mary and Georgiana obligingly struck up a festive duet upon the pianoforte, and Kitty turned the pages for them, and the young ladies sang as sweetly as they knew how. And though there was some inequality of talent among the three of them, in fact their voices sounded rather well together.

Kitty went to bed that night feeling oddly unhappy, though she could not immediately say why. It was not only due to the tense scene in the drawing-room: that had held little mystery for her, for she had always known that Mr. Darcy quite despised Mr. Wickham, and she herself was well enough aware—more aware even than her own mother, it seemed—of the impropriety of Lydia's marriage, and how naturally Mr. Darcy might object to inviting such a couple under his own roof, in-laws or no. She did not know why Georgiana should be concerned with any of it, but she supposed it was that young lady's natural gentleness of spirit which had been distressed by the thought of Lydia's misfortune. And she had not been entirely surprised by her mother's bringing up the subject in such a fashion; it was the sort of thing which Mrs. Bennet was liable to do, particularly where her favorite child was concerned.

No; Kitty's unhappiness stemmed from some other cause, some faint malaise in the back of her mind, which made her feel, now, out of sorts with the company and amusements which had previously seemed the epitome of all happiness.

She undressed with a furrowed brow, helped by one of the maids. The hour was rather late, for they had sat long in the drawing-room; and though she considered going to talk with Mary for a little while, in truth she suddenly felt very tired. The room was warm, the fire crackling gently, the moon outside the window casting a pale blue gleam upon the soft snow. Kitty climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin, and leaned onto her elbow to blow out the candle. The room fell into darkness, and something continued to worry indistinctly at her thoughts.

It was not until she was almost asleep that the cause of her strange dissatisfaction came to her. Mrs. Bennet's conjecture that Kitty would be married by the following Christmas—her supposition that Kitty and her unknown husband would come to spend the holiday at Pemberley—it had reminded Kitty once again of Mr. Price, and how eagerly he had spoken of Christmas at Pemberley. And of course there had been a time when she had imagined that she would be married by _this_ Christmas, and that their usual family party would be made larger and merrier by the addition of her handsome husband. Kitty felt the now-familiar hot wash of shame over her, and squeezed her eyes shut. Was she never to be free of Mr. Price? Was every stray word to assail her with unhappy memories? Was she doomed to eternally relive her shame?

She turned onto her other side, and attempted to think of something else, but it would not do. Her head was full of him, now—his voice, his face, his laughter—as it had been on so many nights in the little room at Henry Street, when these recollections had brought a happy blush to her cheek and a delighted sparkle to her eye. But now all she could think of was her own foolishness, and her humiliation, and all of the little things he had said and done that should have given her some hint as to his villainy, but instead had enchanted her, the stupid little girl that she had been.

At last Kitty groaned, and sat up. Her heart ached, and sleep would not come. She flung away the covers and went to stand before the window, feeling the cold air seep through the glass. She wished she could go and speak with Mary, but the hour was too late, and her sister was almost certainly asleep by now. Indeed, the entire house was silent and still. She was quite alone, and she did not want to be.

It was then that her eyes fell upon the letter from Mr. Finch, sitting upon the window-sill where she had sat reading it, and she picked it up. The room was too dark to make out all of the words, but she could dimly see the careful loops and lines of the gentleman's signature, and the faint marks where he had smudged the ink. No debonair love-letter, this. With an involuntary little smile, Kitty went to fetch the candlestick, and lit it again in the fireplace embers, before setting it upon the nightstand and curling herself into her bed to read the letter once more.

She dozed off somewhere on the second page, the paper falling from her hand onto the floor; and she awoke only long enough to blow out the candle.

* * *

Christmas Eve dawned pale and gray, and Kitty was tired from her fitful night. But the rest of the family seemed to be suffering no such fatigue, for the breakfast-table was agreeably noisy and everybody who came in was wished a very merry Christmas.

"Last year, at this time," Elizabeth said, over ham and toast, "I am afraid I was rather lax in my duties as mistress of Pemberley, for Sophia was only two weeks old and my duties as a mother were then the larger concern. But this year Mr. Darcy and I shall take the sleigh after breakfast, and visit all of our tenants. Georgiana, I know, shall join us, for she has always done so; but perhaps my younger sisters would care to come along."

Mary's eyes lit up, and she eagerly agreed. "This, we must not forget, is the true meaning of Christmas," she proclaimed, "not the festivities and amusements which we so often associate with the holiday, but kindness between fellow men."

"And women, in this case," Lizzie added, smiling. "Kitty, will you join us?"

Kitty cast a doubtful glance at the gray skies beyond the window, which looked very cold; but she had little desire to spend much time in her mother's company at the moment, even with her father and Jane and Mr. Bingley there as well, and so she agreed.

They set out after breakfast, the three Darcys and the two Bennets, settled cozily into the large sleigh, which ran more easily along the snowy landscape than any of the carriages. The day was not so cold as it had seemed, but the heavy clouds to the west held the promise of snow, and Kitty tucked herself securely against Mary's shoulder. "I shall require you to block the wind," she told her sister teasingly.

"I shall endeavor to do so, but I fear you overestimate my solidity," Mary replied, and Kitty laughed.

It was in fact rather pleasant, though Kitty was very glad of her scarf and hat, and of the woollen carriage blanket that covered them. She was seated between Mary and Georgiana on one bench, and Lizzie and Mr. Darcy sat facing them, buried beneath their own layers of blankets and coats. Between the wind and the noise of the blades cutting through the snow and ice, there was no conversation to be had; but it was agreeable simply to watch the white landscape rushing by, dotted here and there with snow-covered trees and bushes, and every so often spotting a plume of smoke rising from somebody's chimney.

Kitty had never realized quite how large the Darcy estate was, and so she was surprised at how far they were obliged to travel before they slowed to a stop before the first house. It was a picturesque little stone cottage, and looked very snug and warm, with curtains in the windows and a green wreath upon the door.

"These are the Wilsons," Georgiana said to the Miss Bennets, as they disembarked; "they have lived here at Pemberley since my grandfather was master."

The Wilsons proved to be quite a prodigious brood, with a great many children and cousins nestled under one roof, and Mr. Wilson greeted the Darcys merrily. Kitty was surprised at Mr. Darcy's good humor, for he smiled and laughed very readily; and she was even more surprised when Georgiana spoke quite easily to the younger members of the family, and even knelt down on the floor to play for a moment with a pair of young towheaded twins presently busy about a game of jacks. There was no timidity to be found in her friend, and for a moment Kitty felt as though she was looking at quite a different young lady.

Mrs. Darcy, who was holding the family baby at Mrs. Wilson's urging, introduced her sisters; and the Wilsons immediately declared them the prettiest girls they had ever seen, "excepting Miss Darcy, of course," and inquired very solicitously after their health, and said many other kind things, to which Mary and Kitty could only respond with smiles. And then Elizabeth called all of the Wilson children to her, and presented each of them with a small gift—some little toy or trinket which was immediately exclaimed over by every member of the family. Kitty was quite impressed that Lizzie had not forgotten anybody, given the many children who crowded about her. Truly, she thought, filled with sisterly pride, Pemberley could not ask for a better mistress.

They made many other calls of a similar nature; everybody was pleased to see them, and happy to be introduced to the Miss Bennets, and eager to wish their landlord and his family a most pleasant Christmas, and inquire after little Sophia. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy knew everybody by name, and had toys at hand for all of the children, and cold pies and other presents for the adults; and they remembered those among their tenants who had suffered misfortune over the past year—a death, or an illness, or some other sorrow, and to those families they offered condolences and sympathy and particularly generous gifts.

"This is always my favorite part of Christmastide," Georgiana confessed to Mary and Kitty, as they made their way back to the sleigh after visiting a young couple celebrating the recent birth of their second child.

"As it should be," Mary agreed, smiling at her. "One must never underestimate the satisfaction that comes from doing good, and seeing good done. And it is clear that your visits bring great happiness to the families of the estate. This, as I said, is the truest celebration of Christmas: acts of generosity and compassion can only honor the season."

Kitty glanced back over her shoulder, at the young wife who still stood in the doorway of her cottage, her infant daughter asleep against her shoulder. The woman smiled at her. Kitty turned away to climb into the sleigh, and pulled the carriage blanket gratefully over herself. When she looked again, the woman was gone.

The morning had turned to afternoon by the time they returned to Pemberley, and snow had begun falling, tentatively at first and then with increasing steadiness as they came up the path toward the house. "I hope there is tea awaiting us," Lizzie declared, laughing breathlessly, as they disembarked; "I shall require some fortification before services tonight, if I am to go out into the cold again!"

There was tea awaiting them, and chocolate besides in celebration of the holiday. But Kitty found that she had no desire, at that moment, for company; she was in a queer, thoughtful mood, not quite irritable but neither particularly sociable. And so she turned her steps away from the drawing-room, in which the rest of the family sat, and went instead to the music-room. There she sat for quite awhile, lost in thought.

"Oh," Georgiana said, coming suddenly into the room, "forgive me, Kitty; I did not know you were here. I hope I am not disturbing you."

Kitty gave herself a little shake to rouse herself, and smiled at her sister-in-law. "Not at all," she said. "I only wanted a bit of quiet."

"Then I shall go," Georgiana promised, "as soon as ever I can; I only came to fetch a piece of music for your sister Mary."

"You needn't go," Kitty said, for now that Georgiana was here, she found she did not mind the company so much after all. "Come, sit by me, if Mary can spare you for another few minutes."

Georgiana conceded that Mary probably could, and sat beside Kitty on the couch before the fireplace. There stretched a long moment of silence.

"Are you well, Kitty?" Georgiana asked at length, looking at her friend in some concern.

"Oh, yes," Kitty said distractedly. "I was just thinking about something, but I could not say now what it was. Do you ever have such moments, Georgiana?"

"Indeed I do," Georgiana replied. "And very often I feel as though I am on the verge of some wonderful idea or discovery, and then somebody speaks to me and breaks the spell, and I cannot remember what I was thinking of. I hope I did not cause you such an annoyance."

Kitty gave a little laugh. "Not at all—I do not think I was thinking of anything very philosophical. That is more Mary's talent than mine. In fact," she said, "I am afraid I have the unfortunate habit of thinking as little as possible, and so I am really a very stupid sort of person."

"That is not so," Georgiana protested, frowning at her.

"No, it is," Kitty said, and though she had not thought of him once that day, it suddenly became clear to her that Mr. Price still weighed very much upon her mind, "I cannot tell you the whole of it, but you may rest assured that I have done some _very_ foolish things, rather wicked things too, which nearly cost me a great deal, and would have made me most unhappy, though I did not see it at the time. And so you see I am really very stupid after all."

Georgiana bit her lip, and regarded her friend with a furrowed brow, and worried eyes. There was another stretch of silence.

"Kitty," Georgiana said, finally, "though I do not know quite what you are talking about, I think—I think that your ability to know that whatever you did was wrong, and foolish—I think that that speaks very well of you, though you do not see it."

"Yes," Kitty said, in tired exasperation, "_now_ I can see what was wrong, and all of the mistakes I made. Now I cannot stop thinking of it, and loathing myself for it, and it all makes me so very miserable. Now that it does me no good, it is all I can think about."

Her friend smiled softly, and rather sadly, and laid a gentle hand over Kitty's own where it rested on the couch. "You are not the only young lady in the world," she said, quietly, "to suffer from regrets. I myself—" But here she paused, and glanced away. "I myself have done things which I ought not to have done," she continued, steadily, after a moment, "and made poor decisions. And there was quite a long time after the fact when it was all I could think about, and I was most desperately unhappy, and thought myself the worst, the most selfish and thoughtless and—and _stupid_ of creatures. My education had taught me everything that was right, and yet when I was tested, I chose everything that was wrong; and for this I thought I should never forgive myself. Indeed I did not think myself worthy of forgiveness."

Kitty stared at her, at sweet, gentle Georgiana Darcy who did not look capable of ever doing anything but what was good and proper and true. Her friend blushed under her scrutiny, and glanced away again.

"But I did come to forgive myself," Georgiana went on. "For I came to understand that it is human nature to err, and to misstep; and it is only through these missteps that we may come to know ourselves better, and to resolve to do what is right in the future. Indeed," she added, gaining strength, "I think it is only by occasionally doing wrong that we may know at all what is right."

For a moment Kitty was reminded of Rosamond—_You know now the mistakes you have made, and you will know better for next time_—and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps her friend's words had carried a greater weight than she had realized at the time.

"There are times," Georgiana was saying, "when I still think of—of those moments, when I came close to such a fatal step, and I begin to feel all the shame of my fault once again. For it is right that the recollection should give me pain. But now I need only remind myself how much I have learned since then, and how much stronger I am now, and the pain begins to abate."

Kitty sat back in her seat, thinking.

"And," Georgiana said, smiling at her, "I came to see, too, how little I had understood my own good fortune. It is only by coming close to losing everything, that we may grow to appreciate what it is that we have. I had never before realized quite how good a brother Fitzwilliam is to me: how loving he is, and compassionate, and forgiving. Nor had I realized how blessed I am in my friends and family. The bad parts of one's life serve best to throw the good parts into relief, and I had long taken the good parts so much for granted. You have a great deal of good in your life, Kitty, and I hope that whatever misfortune you have suffered will help you to see it more clearly."

And suddenly it all _was_ very clear. She could see her father, doing his best to be more attentive to his daughters, his pride in his children ever growing; she could see her mother, rising furiously to her defense upon hearing of Mr. Price's insults, wanting only comfort and security for her girls; she could see Mary, earnestly endeavoring to provide comfort and sympathy and, when she thought it helpful, illumination, even if in the form of some dull lecture.

There was Rosamond, serene and unselfish and understanding far more than Kitty had ever quite realized; and Robert, clever and thoughtful, whose greatest wish was to be of service to those who needed him; and Theodore and Anne, unexpectedly kind and consoling; and sweet Juliet and generous Dr. Hart, who had welcomed the Bennets so warmly into their circle of friends. There were Lizzie and Jane, determined to protect her from the censure of the world and steer her upon a sound and proper path. There was Georgiana herself, gentle and sympathetic. There was little Sophia, who loved her aunts so wholeheartedly.

And then, in her mind's eye, Kitty saw again the smiling young woman at the door to the cottage. And she thought of Oliver Finch, who was even now paying his Christmas Eve calls to his parishioners, the collar of his coat turned up against the snow and the cold but the warmth of his smile and the sincerity of his good wishes never fading.

The small comfortable flame in her breast leapt higher, and indeed _everything_ was very clear. And Kitty took a deep, sharp breath.

* * *

They attended Christmas Eve services at the little church in Lambton, for though there was a chapel at Pemberley, the Darcys preferred to attend holiday services alongside the rest of their community. It was a pretty little church, but Kitty's head and heart were too full of other things for her to pay much attention to the sermon. She felt rather guilty about this afterwards, as they were leaving the church and greeting all of the Darcys' friends, yet she could not bring herself to feel _too_ upset; for a great wonderful happiness consumed her, and a love and thankfulness for everybody around her, which she imagined must have been what the rector was trying to accomplish, anyway. (She thought that she might have paid him more attention had he been rather younger, a curate instead of a rector, with dark hair and dark eyes and broad shoulders.)

There was a fine dinner to be had that evening, with meat and cheese and cold pies and fresh bread. Afterwards they lit a roaring Christmas fire, and Mary and Georgiana played a great many songs, every so often enlisting Kitty to sing with them; and there were games and a great deal of happiness and amusement. Kitty's spirits were higher now than they had been since she had come to Pemberley—indeed, she thought, since her return from Bath. They even had a dance, though there were hardly gentlemen enough; Kitty danced with Mr. Bingley, and Mr. Darcy, to everybody's surprise, danced with his sister, who laughed and demonstrated for him several of the new steps Kitty had taught her.

It was a merry evening indeed, and everybody went to bed very satisfied, and rose early upon the next day for more festivities.

Christmastide passed quickly, as it always does, in a warm rush of music and laughter and good cheer. They visited many of the other families in the neighborhood, and were visited in turn, and for a time their social agenda was almost as full in Derbyshire as it had been in Bath. The lake was cleared, and they had an afternoon of ice-skating, joined by several of the children of the estate, followed by tea and chocolate in one of the drawing-rooms.

The Fitzwilliams arrived on the twenty-ninth: the Colonel and his wife, with whom of course they were already well-acquainted, and Lord and Lady Hornsley, his parents, and Lord Thomas Fitzwilliam, Viscount Courtenay, his elder brother. (This was the gentleman to whom Mrs. Bennet had referred when she spoke of "the earl," for though Lord Fitzwilliam was not an earl _yet_, he certainly would be one day—and that was a better prospect than many gentlemen might boast.)

The Darcys greeted their cousins with all of the fondness and affection which was to be expected, for the Hornsley House and Pemberley families had always been intimate. Kitty, too, was glad to see them, for she considered Mrs. Fitzwilliam a remarkably agreeable person for a married lady.

Mrs. Bennet was all a-flutter in the company of such high titles, though she was glad to see that Lord Fitzwilliam, who was perhaps thirty or so, was at least as handsome as his brother, and seemed to be quite as amiable. But her discomposure caused her to guard her tongue more carefully than was her usual habit, for which her family was all very grateful, and she could not quite bring herself to make any of her accustomed hints or implications regarding Kitty and the viscount. Somehow it was rather more difficult to wink knowingly at a gentleman who would someday be an earl, than it had been to wink at Mr. Price or Mr. Hart.

She was disappointed that Kitty, upon introduction to Lord Fitzwilliam, afforded the gentleman only a curtsy and a smile and a brief exchange of civilities, before excusing herself to sit with her friend Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and hear the news from Bath. This seemed, to Mrs. Bennet, rather a reprehensible lapse in judgment on the part of her daughter, and she made a mental note to address the matter with her later, when they were alone.

But in fact she would have no opportunity, for with the addition of the Fitzwilliams to the party, Pemberley became very busy indeed.

It seemed as though there were people to be found in every room, sitting and talking, or eating, or playing whist or charades, or cooing over little Sophia, or otherwise entertaining themselves. Mary found the multitude of relatives rather alarming, and so spent a full day sequestered in the library, where nobody—save perhaps Mr. Darcy, who was otherwise engaged as host, and Mr. Bennet, whose company was often claimed by his wife or elder daughters—would think to come during the festive days of Christmastide.

Her retreat from the family circle helped somewhat to soothe her temper, which was always tested around this time of year. It was not that Mary did not love her family, for of course she did, but she did not always enjoy having them so very present, so very much. Yet she had found Pemberley more agreeable this time than she had upon her last visit; having taken the trouble to make friends with Georgiana, and of course having already grown more intimate with her sister Kitty, she had found more amusement and pleasure in the house than she might have expected a year ago. She dimly recalled Kitty, when last they were under the Darcys' roof, exhorting her to be more pleasant to Georgiana and Rosamond (who was then visiting with her brother and sister-in-law); she recalled more vividly her own scornful response, which now seemed so silly to her. Why had she ever thought that eschewing a worthy friendship—_two_ worthy friendships—would serve to improve her mind and soul?

If Robert Hart were here, she reflected, he might have some clever, cutting response to her hypothetical query; or he might say something quite thoughtful and profound, which would cause her to stop in her tracks, and think very hard. But he was _not_ here, however much she might like him to be (and though she was not, as Kitty seemed to think, pining for his company, nor dying for love of him, there were moments when she rather thought she might like to see his face or hear his voice).

At any rate, she was glad to have a day by herself.

But whatever equanimity was restored by that retreat was soon destroyed, for Twelfth Night, the day of the Darcys' ball, arrived all too soon. It was a very large affair, for everybody in the neighborhood had been invited and, Twelfth Night being a night of particular festivity and celebration, everybody in the neighborhood had agreed to come, and the event was looked forward to with a great deal of anticipation.

"I am rather afraid that I shall forget all the steps of the dances you taught me, Kitty," Georgiana fretted, staring at herself in the mirror. The three young ladies were dressed and perfumed, their hair curled and pinned.

"You shall not," Kitty promised, leaning over her shoulder and grinning at her. "Indeed I think you shall be the envy of the everybody else, as Lizzie says, for you are a fine dancer _and_ you are likely to be the most beautiful young lady in the room. If you do not receive half a dozen proposals by midnight then I shall be quite shocked."

Indeed Georgiana did look very beautiful. It being winter, gowns of white were the present fashion; Miss Darcy's, in fine silk, was adorned with stylish accents of expensive-looking lace, while Kitty, in muslin, wore a green ribbon round her waist, and Mary was dressed as simply as her sisters had permitted.

"You flatter me," Georgiana retorted, smiling at her. "In fact I do not know that I shall be asked to dance at all; I am not much acquainted with any of the gentlemen below. But I do not think I should mind sitting down for the duration of the ball."

"I will sit with you," Mary offered, "for I do not intend to dance."

"Nay, nay," Kitty cried, laughing, "you cannot both abandon me; I am determined to see both of you dance at least once, and I am sure you shall not want for partners. Come, now, or they will begin to think we intend to stay cloistered in here forever."

And so the three young ladies descended, and found in the ballroom below a most agreeable assembly, practically a crush; and Elizabeth presiding over it all, with a competence and elegance which surprised even her fond sisters.

Miss Darcy's Christmastide decorations had been supplemented by gold and silver papers, and a great many candles, and many other glittering trimmings, which imbued the scene with a certain magic. Everybody was in their finest dress, some with little sprigs of holly tucked into their hair or pinned to their coats and bodices in celebration of the holiday. The music, fast and merry, poured from one end of the room, and several couples already twirled and spun upon the dance-floor. Kitty watched delightedly as one brave young squire, finding himself caught beneath a bundle of mistletoe alongside a pretty maid, bashfully claimed his kiss from her.

Whatever Mrs. Bennet had feared, there was no shortage of gentlemen in the room, and indeed Georgiana had not long been seated before her hand was shyly requested. She blushed very red, and cast a wide-eyed glance in Kitty's direction, as she was whirled away. (Kitty was interested to see Mr. Darcy watching his sister and her partner very vigilantly, a stern cast to his features, and she wondered if Lizzie had had a great deal of work to do, in convincing her husband that Georgiana was ready to be "out.")

It was not long before Kitty, too, was asked to dance, and even Mary soon found herself upon the dance-floor, without much idea as to how she had got there. Her partner was very agreeable; but she found that he danced far better than she did, and she found herself rather longing for Robert's clumsiness, which so well matched her own. She said as much to Kitty, when they met over the punch-bowl in the dining room.

"I thought you did not intend to dance," Kitty teased. "But I know what you mean, my dear Mary; the last gentleman I danced with was most amiable, and had a great many interesting things to say, and it only made me think how much I prefer when my partner allows me to be the more talkative, as Mr. Finch always does."

"Mr. Finch?" Mary repeated, raising an eyebrow. Kitty's cheeks were already pink with exertion, but Mary could have sworn they darkened further, and her sister smiled at her.

"Have you tried any of the little cakes?" she asked carelessly. "I think them very good. I have eaten three already."

Mary squinted at her, but Kitty would not say anything more, and so she was obliged to admit defeat.

The rest of the ball continued as such balls often do: with a great deal of noise and merriment, and fast and slow dances, and other such jollity. The food was excellent, the drink as strong as it ought to be, the music expertly played, the dances gaily performed. Conversation was light and sparkling and, in some quarters, rather witty. Kitty was glad of the opportunity to dance and laugh, and meet a great many new people; Mary was less comfortable amidst the noise and the press of warm bodies, but comforted herself with the thought that, the next time she danced, it would be at Rosamond's wedding, and Robert would be her partner. (And he would only oblige her to dance _one_ dance.)

The last of the guests left as the moon was beginning to sink in the sky, their breath forming soft clouds in the cold air as they said good-bye. Mary had retreated to her bedroom quite a bit earlier, falling asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, despite the strains of music which carried up the stairs to her room; even Georgiana, who had done her best to remain awake and assist Mrs. Darcy with her duties as hostess, had long dozed against the back of her chair, and had to be gently shaken awake by Lady Hornsley. Thus the Pemberley party, in varying states of alertness, bid the guests a very fond farewell, and traipsed up the stairs to their separate quarters, too weary even to do anything more than bid each other good-nights, and merry-Christmastides.

But Kitty, upon reaching her bedroom, did not retire immediately; instead she went and sat upon the window-seat, thinking distantly on everything and nothing, or perhaps not really thinking at all.

She did not rouse herself from this reverie until the sky had begun to lighten almost imperceptibly, and faint streaks of pale gray had begun to appear along the horizon. It was still some hours from sunrise, but it was very late indeed, and Kitty suddenly felt all the exertion of the past several hours. She undressed, leaving her gown thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair, and crawled into bed; and there she fell into a deep, dreamless, happy sleep.


	24. Chapter 24

The departure of the Bennet family from Pemberley House was accomplished with the natural mixture of sadness and satisfaction brought on by the ending of a pleasant interlude spent in the company of loved ones. The sisters all bid each other very affectionate and rather tearful farewells, and Georgiana embraced Mary and Kitty as dear friends, and entreated them to return to Derbyshire as soon as ever they could. Little Sophia Darcy received a great many kisses from her departing relatives, an attention which she much enjoyed, though she was too young to understand its cause. Even Mr. Darcy, with a genuine smile, seconded the wishes of his wife and sister that the Miss Bennets should come to stay at Pemberley again soon—though Mrs. Bennet's noisy raptures over this bit of courtesy rather punctured his enthusiasm, and in the end he was not so very sorry to see them all go.

And go they did, with Mr. and Mrs. Bingley in the carriage behind, on a cold bright day near the end of January.

The journey home seemed to pass much more swiftly than its predecessor, perhaps because there were no particular delights awaiting at its end to make every mile seem longer. Mary kept her nose in her book (she had finished _Emma Courtney_, but Georgiana had been good enough to lend her _Miss Martin's Diary_ and _The Foreign Countess_ from her personal library); Kitty began writing to Mr. Finch, but found the motion of the carriage too disruptive to her handwriting and so, instead, lost herself in her own happy thoughts.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet sighed, on the afternoon of the second day. They had turned into the meandering lane that led to Longbourn, and she shook herself awake from a light doze. "Well, my dears, here we are again at last—home once more, with nothing accomplished, and no prospects, and nothing to look forward to now."

"Quite so, my love; our lives may well have achieved their peaks," Mr. Bennet agreed wryly. "We must resign ourselves to merely _enduring _the rest of our years, for certainly there is nothing more to be enjoyed."

"Indeed there is not," Mrs. Bennet said, with characteristic obstinacy. "Kitty has not secured Lord Fitzwilliam, though she had ample opportunity, and we all know of Mary's failures with Mr. Hart. And when are they to meet anybody new? Unless there is some miracle and we receive an influx of new neighbors with ten thousand a year each, our girls are doomed to die spinsters."

"Do not dwell upon such misfortunes, Mamma," Mary said, annoyed. "We shall soon have a niece or nephew at Longbourn, and _that_ is worth looking forward to."

"And there is Rosamond's wedding in the spring," Kitty added, "which shall certainly be very diverting."

She did not say what she was really thinking—that her greatest joy on that occasion, aside from the natural delight of witnessing a dear friend made happy, would be to see Oliver Finch again. Though she was aware, now, of her own feelings for that gentleman, she was endeavoring to take a page from Mary's book, and maintain a degree of rationality. There was no sense in allowing her own feelings to overwhelm her, as was her usual custom; somehow it did not seem right, this time, to throw herself into her typical fits of rapture, or babble on about his perfections to Mary or her mother or, in a letter that would likely be wholly disregarded, to Lydia. Such a course would have been natural to her in earlier days, but _this _affection seemed somehow quieter and more complex, and she found herself enjoying the private happiness of reading his letters to herself, and coming to know and love him as a kind friend, rather than a handsome ideal.

Besides which, Kitty knew well enough that her choice of Mr. Finch over Lord Fitzwilliam, if known to her mother, would prove a severe disappointment, and so she deemed it wisest to maintain silence on the matter until she had some hint of that gentleman's feelings for her. For Mrs. Bennet would surely be disappointed to know that her daughter was falling in love with a curate rather than a lord; but if this bitter pill were followed by the news that there was really to be a wedding (and not only the _idea_ of a wedding), then the fond mother would undoubtedly rally her spirits admirably.

"I had quite forgotten about Miss Hart's wedding," Mrs. Bennet said now, brightening. "_That_ is something, I suppose. I imagine all of Lord Adlam's friends will attend; and Miss Hart surely shall not be stingy in introducing you to them, Kitty. And once _she_ is wed, you need no longer have any fear of being overshadowed; a beautiful married lady is nothing to a pretty single one."

"I suppose there shall be viscounts and earls enough for Mary, too," Kitty said, with a grin at her sister, "though she shall take no notice of them."

Mrs. Bennet thought it rather more likely that _they_ would take no notice of _her_, but she did not say so, for they had pulled up before Longbourn and she was swiftly engaged in berating the servants to handle their luggage most carefully, for it would be a fine thing indeed if they made it all the way home only to have their valises all broken open and their things all strewn upon their own snowy lawn.

Mary was happy to be home. She relished the peace and quiet of Longbourn after the liveliness of Christmastide at Pemberley, though she rather missed the opportunity to play duets with Georgiana (and, indeed, she missed the excellence of Georgiana's instrument, to which her own rather shabbier pianoforte could not compare). But it was good to walk, again, in the familiar scenes of her own neighborhood, and even the pastoral bustle of Meryton was agreeable to her. She said as much to Kitty one afternoon in mid-February, as they walked along the muddy path to Lucas Lodge.

"Mary," Kitty exclaimed, "hearing you talk so, I begin to think that Mamma is not so mistaken after all."

"I do not take your meaning," Mary replied, stiffly, and in some confusion. Kitty gave a little laugh.

"Why, I only mean that you are not so soon to marry as I had thought. It seemed most natural to me that you should become engaged at Rosamond's wedding, as it is the next time that you and Robert shall be thrown together again, though Mamma still thinks it so unlikely. And now I begin to think, too, that it shall not happen after all, at least not this spring. You are still in love with Hertfordshire."

Mary's brow furrowed, and she cast a glance about her—at the twisted oak tree by the side of the road, the wide fenced fields covered with melting snow, the few brave, doomed crocuses beginning to poke their heads through the last icy crusts of winter.

"I do not think you can compare my feelings for Hertfordshire to my feelings for Robert," she ventured.

"Of course not. But I begin to understand what you mean when you say you are not ready for marriage. You are content, if not happy, without him, so long as you are here—is that so?"

"Yes," Mary said. "And I have not pretended to be ready for marriage, nor to be able to predict when that readiness shall occur."

"I know," Kitty agreed. "But until recently I did not entirely know what it meant to be _ready_ for marriage. I supposed it was only when you thought a gentleman quite perfect, and he thought the same of you, and you looked well together. But now I think it is when you see his imperfections, and he sees yours, and yet you are each absolutely necessary to the happiness of the other; and in _your_ case especially, it is when you begin to prize his company over your peace, and you do not mind whether you are in a city or a village or the middle of a desert, so long as you are with him."

"That is perhaps a more romantic phrasing than I should have used," Mary replied.

"But I am right—am I not? And you do not yet think you could trade Hertfordshire for London just now, even to be by Robert's side, however much you love him."

Mary hesitated. "Perhaps not," she said. "And I do not think, from reading his letters to me, that Robert is prepared to take on the duties and responsibilities of married life. If we may move from the romantic to the rational, it would be unwise for us to marry at this time; he is still a student, and will not be settled in his profession for some years. I daresay even Mamma would admit that it makes little sense to set up house together on such a small and uncertain budget. It will be better to wait until Robert has steady work at one of the hospitals, or perhaps even his own practice."

"Mamma may admit it, but not happily," Kitty laughed. "And to move from the rational _back_ to the romantic, I do think it terribly poetic, that you are so much in love together and yet separated by so many obstacles."

"Not many obstacles," Mary protested, smiling, "chiefly the obstacles of our own separate lingering selfishness, which is not yet ready to be traded for the mutual devotion of a husband and wife."

"Then I think you do right," Kitty said. "For an untimely marriage may be an unhappy one. And besides," she added, with a rather wicked grin, "I have often heard that a pleasure delayed is all the sweeter."

Mary gave her a very chastening look, which made her laugh aloud.

Her sister may have been happy to be at home, but Kitty began to feel again something like the restlessness that had plagued her the summer before they first went to Bath. Rosamond's wedding was not until May, and so there were three months to fill between their return from Pemberley and the eagerly anticipated journey.

It was perhaps most unfortunate that these three months were, as is usual, some of the dullest of the year. Snow and ice are all very well at Christmastide, for they add to the festive seasonal look of things, and make a particularly charming backdrop for celebrations of the holiday; but in January and February and March, when all the delights of the Christmas season have been sampled and there are no more holidays to make the cold seem cozy and cheerful, ill weather is nothing more than a great inconvenience.

There was little entertainment to be had. Netherfield was undergoing a great deal of work in preparation for the baby, and between the construction and Jane's condition (she was grown very round indeed), balls and parties were quite out of the question at that house. The Miss Lucases went away, in late February, to spend some time with their sister Mrs. Collins, and so even the usual distractions of visits to Lucas Lodge grew tedious; there was nobody to talk to _there_ except Lady Lucas and the young Master Lucases, the eldest of whom had just turned twelve.

With no regiment stationed at Meryton, the gossip to be learned from the girls' Aunt Phillips was of the usual dull sort—a farmer's wife having a baby, the departure of a shop assistant for a new position in some other town, a flirtation between two young people at an evening assembly that really, in the end, did not amount to anything. Mr. Phillips did take on a rather handsome new clerk, which caused something of a stir at Longbourn—"Perhaps _he_ might marry you, my dear!" Mrs. Bennet trilled excitedly to Mary—but in the end it came to nothing, for the gentleman was more interested in Kitty than her sister and, having been politely discouraged by her, set his sights more successfully upon a young lady from the village.

"What shall I do," Mary asked her sister rather desperately, "when you are married and gone away, and I have nobody to engage the attentions of every gentleman Mamma invites to dine?"

"Perhaps you ought to behave as Emiliana in _The Foreign Countess_," Kitty suggested teasingly, "and join a convent, at least until your handsome Roberto comes to rescue you."

"There are no convents in England," Mary muttered, "or perhaps I might."

Given the scarcity of news and amusements, Kitty came to depend ever more upon her letters from Bath, which provided a glimpse into a world at least somewhat more exciting than her own. Hart House seemed to be a center of activity: Rosamond wrote of dinner parties and card-parties, attended by many of Kitty's Bath friends. The Upper Rooms had not yet begun their schedule for the Season, but there were balls held there every few weeks, and concerts besides.

Oliver Finch's letters exhibited less appreciation for social entertainments than Miss Hart's, but were agreeable nonetheless, made all the more so by Kitty's developing feelings for their writer. His letters had always been long and, to Kitty's mind, interesting, but the envelopes seemed to be growing thicker as the weeks went by; whatever initial shyness had formerly stilled Oliver's pen looked to be fading, and he wrote more and more of himself—his thoughts, his questions, his interests—and of her. Their correspondence truly had the feeling of an extended conversation, one of those rare conversations which ranges upon a wide variety of topics, without sacrificing depth and interest, and leaves each of its participants with the feeling that they understand each other quite perfectly, and yet are still interested in knowing each other further, and do not feel as though they have discovered all there is to discover about each other.

This, at any rate, was _Kitty's _feeling regarding their correspondence, and though she liked to think so, she could not be _certain_ that it was mutual. And so she endeavored to give no hint to Oliver of her growing feelings for him. It would not be right, anyway, she thought, to do so in a letter; that was the sort of thing which really ought to be done in person.

(Besides which, she had in her mind an image: the two of them meeting again at Rosamond's wedding, and knowing with one look all that there was to know. After the ceremony, during the party which was to follow, he would ask her to the veranda, and she would go with him. And they would be out there alone, in the moonlight—of course there must be moonlight—the scent of blooming peonies and jasmine all about them and a few stray petals floating on the spring breeze. He would turn to her, and there would be no need even of words; he would fall down upon one knee, and take his hand in hers, and she would wipe tears of joy from her eyes and say "Yes" even before he asked the question. He would beam, and stand, and take her in his strong arms. They would linger in the moonlight for a moment more, secure in the warmth of their love, and at last they would go inside and tell everybody the wonderful news. Mary would embrace him as a brother, and Mrs. Bennet would burst into happy tears, and Kitty would not let go of Oliver's arm for the rest of the evening.

Kitty may have put aside much of her yearning for romance, but certain fancies would not be denied.)

She wondered, occasionally, whether he might not still be pining for Rosamond—a thought which made her heart ache, her pain both for him and for herself. For if indeed Oliver _did_ still love her friend (who was, after all, lovely and clever and winsome, with no known history of falling in love with handsome scoundrels), Kitty's own chances of securing his love were necessarily greatly reduced.

This was not a thought which gave her any comfort, and so she endeavored to push it from her mind.

And so this was how she passed the months between their return to Longbourn and their departure for Bath: in thinking, and daydreaming, and doing her best not to think and daydream overmuch. They were long, dull months, the only spots of brightness being the letters she received from her friends, and her visits to Netherfield to sit with Jane. As the long, cold, gray days stretched on—as dirty patches of ice and snow covered the ground long after their absence was desired—it began to seem as though spring would never come.

* * *

Yet spring _did_ come: slowly, but surely, the patches of crusty ice and snow began to shrink, and the first foolhardy crop of crocuses was followed by a second, stronger set. Grass emerged from the cold mud, green and cheerful, and buds began to grow on the branches of the trees. The weather was not yet fair enough to trade heavy coats for spencers and shawls, but the days were growing longer, and warmer, and springtime in Bath did not seem so far away as it once had.

There were other changes, too. One day in early April, Kitty was awakened very early in the morning—so early that the sun had not yet risen—by a pounding on her door, and she opened it to see Mary standing in the hall, flushed and dressed only in her petticoat, though she was hurriedly pulling on her boots.

"Dress, quickly," Mary gasped, her eyes bright, "for Mamma has had a note from Netherfield—Jane's time is come!"

And indeed Kitty could hear Mrs. Bennet, in her own room, shrieking for Hill to come help her; and there was a great deal of uproar all through the house, almost as though the anticipated event were in fact taking place at Longbourn.

The Netherfield household was, ironically, a great deal calmer than that of Netherfield, for everybody there had been well-prepared for this event, and anyway there was not much to be done except in the chamber of confinement itself. Mr. Jones, the local surgeon, and the midwife both attended Mrs. Bingley, as did several maids, who stood ready to give whatever aid was needed; and for everybody else, there was nothing to do but wait, and talk, and endeavor to gain whatever clues were to be gained by listening at the door.

Mr. Bingley, pale and nervous, paced before the door of his wife's bedroom, raking his hand through his hair and making it stand up in a most comical fashion, though Kitty did not dare to laugh at him just now. Mr. Bennet, who had undergone this same experience five times before, endeavored to reassure his son-in-law as best he could, but these efforts were rather undermined by Mrs. Bennet, whose mood swung wildly between elation and agitation.

"What a joy it shall be to all of us, if it is a son!" the lady exclaimed. "To have an heir to Netherfield should make you proud indeed, sir, to say nothing of the rest of us! I declare there could be nothing better!—But what is this unaccountable delay? I am sure it ought not to be taking so long. This waiting plays most ill upon my nerves! _I_ was never so long about it, not with any of my girls, though they were all most difficult and painful labors to be sure. With Lydia I thought sure I would not survive it."

Mr. Bingley paled even further, and sank bonelessly into a chair.

"But survive it you did, my dear, to the great relief of everybody concerned," Mr. Bennet snapped, his own nerves rather tried by the circumstances, "and so there is no need to linger on the experience any longer."

"How can you speak to me so cruelly?" Mrs. Bennet cried, "To think I nearly died for the sake of _your_ child—"

"Mamma," Kitty broke in, with a desperate glance at her father, "let us go and look at the nursery, and see all the improvements which have been made. I have not seen it since the work began."

Mrs. Bennet was hesitant to leave the scene of the action, for she felt it her right to be the first to hear any news, and the first to gaze upon the newborn; but Kitty pressed her firmly, and Mary soon joined her own entreaties to those of her sister. A maid emerging from the chamber for a fresh pitcher of water confirmed that it would be some time yet before there was anything to report, and so at last Mrs. Bennet was persuaded to go with her daughters to the nursery, and admire all that had been done.

Indeed it was several more hours before the news finally came: Mrs. Bingley had given birth not to one son, but to two, both of them healthy and squalling as newborns ought; and Jane, too, was perfectly well, though necessarily much exhausted, and more than a little shocked by the realization that she had produced a pair of children when only one had been expected.

Mr. Bingley, hearing this, looked rather stunned, and there was a moment where Kitty thought he might faint; but he recovered admirably, and rushed to his wife's bedside. Mrs. Bennet made to follow, but her husband kept them all outside for a little longer. "Let them enjoy a few minutes alone together," he said, "for you and I, Mrs. Bennet, know very well the feelings which accompany such an event," and Mrs. Bennet, glancing rather tenderly at him, relented without another word.

But at last they went in to see Jane, pale against the pillows, her hair clinging to her face and neck with sweat and her eyelids drooping with fatigue. Despite all this she looked happier even than she had on her wedding day. She was cradling one of the infants, and Mr. Bingley, at her bedside, held the other, beaming.

"Here is little Charles," he proclaimed proudly, his wife being too tired for words, "and there," nodding at the babe in Jane's arms, "is little Edward."

Mrs. Bennet burst into happy sobs and fell into the arms of her patient husband, and Kitty felt tears pricking at her own eyes, though she wiped them away. Even Mary sniffled rather conspicuously.

The infants had been cleaned and fed, and wrapped in fresh linens. They were quite identical (though of course, except in the eyes of their doting parents, most newborns are rather indistinguishable from one another), but Kitty remarked with amusement that their temperaments would surely be shown to differ, for baby Charles regarded the world with wide, interested blue eyes, and stretched a curious hand toward his father's face, while baby Edward already drowsed contentedly against his mother's breast.

The Bennets did not stay very long, for Jane looked quite on the verge of following her son into sleep. The ride back to Longbourn was silent, though it was a happy silence. Everybody was very tired from their early morning and the stress of the day, and hungry as well, for their breakfast at Netherfield had been something of an afterthought; and so even Mrs. Bennet agreed that they could wait another day to share the news of their good fortune with the rest of the neighborhood, though she was already anticipating with delight the envy that would show upon Lady Lucas's face.

* * *

The birth of the twins, as much as the warmer weather, lifted the last pallor of wintry gloom that had laid over Kitty. Indeed, the world had never seemed brighter to her; the sun shone, the grass grew green, buds began to unfurl into flowers and birds sang cheerfully in the trees. She and Mary walked nearly every day to Netherfield, where they spent happy hours cooing over their little nephews and doing all they could to be useful to Jane. Indeed, their sister seemed grateful to them simply for sitting and talking with her, for she was not yet recovered enough to move about much, and any contact with the world beyond the nursery was most welcome.

"I shall miss you both very much when you go to Bath," Jane confessed one afternoon, only a fortnight before they were to go, "though I know you shall enjoy yourselves most heartily."

"Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are coming to Netherfield next Wednesday," Mary reminded her, though she was aware that this was was not particularly comforting, "so you shall not be without company."

"And anyway, our visit to Bath is only to be a short one," Kitty said. "Papa says not more than a week, though Mamma hopes he will change his mind. And so we will be back at Longbourn before June, and will come to rescue you from your sisters-in-law."

Jane smiled at her. "I have some idea," she said, teasing gently, "that one or both of you may not return to Longbourn at all; watching your friend step into matrimony may prove somewhat inspirational."

Mary blushed, and looked away; Kitty laughed.

"Mary will say nay, and _sometimes _I believe her," she said merrily to Jane, "but other times, I wonder if perhaps the sight of Robert Hart will not be enough to undo all of her rationality, and induce her to marry him on the spot. What do you think, Jane?"

"I think Mary ought to do whatever makes her happiest," Jane replied, clasping her sisters' hands affectionately, "and so should you, Kitty."

"I intend to," Kitty answered, with a mischievous grin which made Mary raise her eyebrows in surprise.

As it happened, Mr. Bennet was, to his wife's displeasure, most firm upon his initial request: they would spend a week in Bath, three days before the wedding and four days after, and no more. He refused to secure lodgings for any longer period of time.

"If Miss Hart cannot manage to get herself married sometime within the span of seven days," he declared, "then there is no hope for her, but it is nothing to do with _us_. Our daughters shall be quite able to attend the ceremony and celebrate with their friend, which is all that they desire and, I assure you, all that is desired of them."

"But what of the other entertainments?" Mrs. Bennet cried. "What of the balls and parties and assemblies? Nobody goes to Bath at the height of the Season and only stays for a _week_! It is entirely unheard of!"

"They do," Mr. Bennet replied sternly, "if they have any sense of frugality; you seem to think us rather richer than we are, my dear. You are to be in Bath at the height of the Season, as you say—and lodgings for that time do not come cheaply."

"But how are we to find Kitty a husband?" Mrs. Bennet wailed. Mr. Bennet admitted himself utterly unequal to this problem, but assured his lady that she was undervaluing her skills as a matchmaker, and that she should surely think of something.

Mrs. Bennet eventually comforted herself with the thought that Miss Hart, once she was Lady Adlam, would undoubtedly make good on her promise to invite Kitty to London for a Season _there_, which was in fact the bigger prize; but nonetheless she began to regard the wedding as a wasted opportunity, and was not quite so satisfied at the prospect as she had been.

They left Longbourn in the first week of May, under a brilliant blue sky, though the road was muddy beneath them. Kitty's heart beat a little faster with every mile that they traveled, and Mary's did too, though she did her best to appear unaffected by the thought of seeing Robert again.

Kitty's words to Jane had given Mary pause; she wondered if, perhaps, their reunion_ would_ result in an immediate wedding, as unlikely as it had seemed to her only a few months ago. Perhaps she had underestimated the strength of her feelings, she mused; perhaps her sentimentality would be enough to overcome her natural rationality, and she would find herself casting aside all of her principled reasoning—about the imprudence of marrying on a student's salary, about her distaste for living in London, about her and Robert's youth—in favor of her love for him.

With their reunion so near, her thoughts seemed to be a bit muddled, and she decided it was best just to put the entire matter out of her mind until she saw him again. This, of course, was easier said than done; and she spent the miles to Bath endeavoring to make conversation with Kitty and her mother, so that she might distract herself from the worries and questions swirling through her mind.

Kitty, for her part, would rather not have made conversation; though she had determined not to swoon helplessly over Mr. Finch as she had over Mr. Price and so many other gentlemen—though she had determined to maintain at least _some_ level of detachment—she found herself beset by daydreams. Her intentions had been good: she thought it absolutely imperative that she speak to Oliver at the earliest opportunity, and to that end, thought it wise to try and work out what, exactly, she would say to him (if indeed words were necessary at all; some part of her still clung to the idea that they would share a meaningful glance, and need nothing more). And so she had begun the journey with the object of composing some sort of speech in her mind, which would not alarm Oliver with its forwardness and yet would leave him in no doubt of her feelings.

Before they had gone very far, however, her thoughts had shifted into romantic reverie, of the same vein as the fantasy related earlier; and then Mary had begun talking, in a rather high-pitched and nervous tone, and so Kitty had pulled herself disgruntledly from her daydreams and indulged her sister's apparent need for conversation.

Bath had looked charming when they had arrived late last summer, with its flowers in luxurious bloom and the heavy sun casting a warm glow upon the limestone buildings; it had looked pretty in mid-autumn, as they had left, with a morning frost glittering upon the ground and brilliant leaves swirling crisply beneath the wheels of the carriage. But it was loveliest, Kitty thought, in the early spring: verdant and bustling with Season traffic, trees stretching their budded branches over the streets and flowers opening shyly against the clean limestone. Ladies in their delicate springtime prints and dainty shawls meandered here and there on the arms of gentlemen, delighting in the warm sunshine after such a long winter. Kitty's heart was in her mouth, and though she kept her face to the window, she grasped blindly for Mary's hand and squeezed it.

They had been unable to secure their old lodgings in Henry Street, as that neighborhood was more popular during the Season, and so the carriage took them across the Avon and into the neighborhood of Carlton Gardens, not far from where the Theodore Harts lived. It was also a little closer to Hart House, and Kitty's first object, upon arrival at their lodgings, was to turn her steps in that direction.

"Come, Mary," she cajoled, changing hurriedly from her traveling-clothes into something less dingy, without even bothering to unpack her trunk, "do you not wish to see Robert again?"

Mary _did_ wish to see Robert, though the prospect of their meeting had begun to fill her with nerves, and so she allowed herself to be pushed and prodded into a day-dress—one of Kitty's, for her sister declared with a sigh that Mary had brought nothing at all suitable for an audience with a lover whom she had not seen in several months.

"I wish you would not use that term," Mary grumbled, red-faced, as Kitty examined her critically to determine whether she needed a brooch or a necklace.

"Which term?" Kitty asked, meeting Mary's eyes.

"'Lover,'" Mary replied, the repetition of the offensive word causing her cheeks to flush anew. "It is most unseemly. We are not characters in some ill-written novel."

Kitty laughed. "But he _is_ your lover, for he loves you; and you love him; and do not be irritable with _me_ just because you are nervous, or I shan't help you with your hair."

"I do not require your help with my hair," Mary grumbled, but Kitty was already pulling her limp brown hair from its customary knot at the back of her head, and endeavoring to twist it into something more becoming. "Anyway," she added, "Robert may not even be at Hart House when we arrive, in which case all of this effort will have been wasted."

"I am sure he will be there," Kitty said, "and even if he is not, Rosamond will notice your dress and your hair, and when Robert comes home, she will say to him, 'Robert, my dear brother, you really ought to have seen how charming Mary Bennet looked this afternoon. I have never seen her look so lovely; she was quite the prettiest one of the party. You must propose to her immediately, as a wedding gift to me, for I should dearly love to have such a winning creature for a sister.'"

She had affected a tone a good deal higher than her own for her imitation of Rosamond, and Mary smiled, despite the fact that neither the voice nor the words sounded at all like their friend, and despite the patent unlikelihood of her ever being the prettiest one of any party.

Mrs. Bennet had taken to her rented bedroom to rest her nerves, and she had no wish to stir from her chaise-lounge. Thus the young ladies set out alone for Hart House only a few minutes later, Kitty chatting amiably and Mary doing her best to listen, though her palms were sweating. The walk seemed to pass more quickly than it ought, and in less than a quarter-hour they had arrived on the familiar quiet street, and then they were walking up the path to Hart House, lined with pink and white bleeding-hearts that reached gently for their skirts. For a moment Mary felt quite panicked, though she knew it was foolish, and she grasped Kitty's arm.

"We ought to have sent a note," she said. "They are not expecting us, and Rose is to be married in three days; I am sure they are far too busy to entertain us. Perhaps we ought to go home and come back tomorrow."

"We are within three feet of the doorstep, Mary," Kitty scoffed; "I am not going home _now_."

And with that she climbed up the steps and rapped smartly with the door-knocker. Mary had no choice but to follow, her heart racing, even as she told herself how silly she was to feel this way.

"You are being quite ridiculous, but I understand perfectly well why _that_ is," Kitty whispered teasingly, as the smiling maid welcomed them into the familiar vestibule. Mary did not have time to make any dignified response (nor could she think of any to make) for they were swiftly shown into the comfortable sitting-room, where they had passed so many pleasant hours.

They found there a large group of their friends; and Kitty's bravado was abruptly stolen from her as she discovered that Oliver Finch was one of the party.

She had not expected to see him, not until she had had more time to prepare herself, and her eyes went very wide—as did his. The full weight of her feelings hit her as she met his gaze, and for a moment she was breathless and her mouth was dry and she realized that _this_ was how Mary must feel at this same moment. All of her detachment, the care she had taken to emulate Mary and remain sensible and logical, was overcome in that instant. It was not only his handsome face; it was the kindness in his eyes, the honesty in his tentative smile. His character was laid bare to her, and in looking at Oliver, she could see the gentleman with whom she _ought_ to have fallen in love all those months ago, and cursed herself anew for her shallowness. Had she really preferred vivacity and a smiling disposition to goodness and understanding? What a fool she had been! (Besides which, she thought, Mr. Price was not really so very handsome when compared with Mr. Finch. He was rather short, for one, and the blueness of his eyes could not make up for the thinness of his face.)

"Why, it is the Miss Bennets!" Rosamond exclaimed, coming forward to greet them. She did not curtsy, but instead embraced Mary and then Kitty warmly. "We did not expect to see you for another day or two!"

"Look, Robert, does not Miss Bennet look exceedingly well?" Juliet asked cheerfully. Robert, whose gaze had indeed been upon Mary, sent his youngest sister a scolding glance; and if Kitty had had the presence of mind to do so, she would have smirked at them both.

"Indeed Mary does look very well, Juliet," Rosamond interjected, smiling at Mary, "as does Kitty, for that matter. Please, sit," this to the Miss Bennets, "We were just about to have tea, and should love for you to join us."

'We' referred to the Hart twins and Juliet, as well as Lord Adlam, Oliver Finch, Captain Finch and their two younger sisters, Mrs. Hart, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and a remarkably beautiful lady, certainly the handsomest of the party, unknown to them, who was examining Mary appraisingly. (This lady was introduced as Mrs. Bontecou, the eldest of the Hart siblings, who had recently moved with her husband from Paris, which was his native city, to Bath, which was of course hers; and her interest in Mary was therefore explained, for she had surely caught the hint in Juliet's words.)

They all sat, and the general conversation obligingly shifted in the direction of the Bennets, as they were the newest additions to the party and therefore, for a few minutes at least, the most interesting. Rosamond was eager to hear news of Georgiana, for she and that young lady had grown quite friendly during her stay at Pemberley two years ago, and had enjoyed a periodic correspondence ever since. Mrs. Hart, who had borne a healthy daughter four months ago, wished to know how fared Jane and Mr. Bingley and their little boys. The others were glad to listen, and respond, and pose their own questions.

But it was a large enough party that they could not all speak for long upon the same topics, and as the tea was served, smaller conversations began to break out. Kitty saw, with mingled relief and disappointment, that Oliver Finch was engaged by his cousin Mrs. Fitzwilliam; she was still a little discomposed at having found him here so unexpectedly. But she turned to Rosamond, for after all she had dearly missed her friend, and noted with pleasure that Robert had crossed the room to talk to Mary, though she could not hear what they said.

"I am glad that you have come, Kitty," Rosamond said, squeezing her hand. "I had worried that I would not be able to see you much at all before the wedding, or indeed after, for Julian and I leave for Gloucestershire within a week."

"Gloucestershire?" Kitty said, "Whatever is in Gloucstershire?"

"Locksby Hall, near Lechlade-on-Thames; it is the Adlams' country seat."

"_Our_ country seat," her betrothed interjected gently, "or soon to be." Rosamond smiled at him, and rested her hand over his own.

"The family has lived at Locksby for centuries," she told Kitty, her eyes bright, "and Julian says it is in a very beautiful part of the country—right along the Thames, and at the edge of the Cotswolds. I know _you_ can have no care for charming countrysides," she added, teasingly, "for you have told me so many times; but you must forgive my enthusiasm, Kitty, for with only a few brief interludes, I have spent my entire life in a city."

"I shall forgive your enthusiasm," Kitty agreed, "so long as you do not forget that you also have a perfectly serviceable house in London, and one here in Bath as well."

Rosamond laughed. "I daresay you will not allow me to forget; nor have I forgotten my request that you should join us in London for the Season. I shall expect you at Breezewood House in January."

"We have a long-standing subscription to Almacks, of which we must make good use," Lord Adlam added, smiling at her. Kitty received the renewal of the invitation with delight, and thought with satisfaction that the viscount was really quite an agreeable sort of gentleman.

"Do you think your sister shall be happy?" Mary asked Robert, quietly. "I remember her saying last summer that she did not think herself disposed to marriage at the present time, and I am certain we both agree that a marriage ill-timed is a marriage ill-made."

"Perhaps she was not disposed to marriage in _general_," Robert replied, "but I think her feelings for Lord Adlam are more than sufficient to overcome whatever hesitation she may have had."

Mary wondered if there was another meaning intended by this, and said, "But do you think, then, that Rosamond is choosing aright in marrying _now_? Do you not think that, whatever her feelings for the gentleman, she ought to wait until the general idea of marriage is more agreeable to her?"

"I do not think it could _be _any more agreeable," was Robert's answer, "that is my point. She may not have felt herself ready before, but as she has fallen in love, her feelings have changed."

"You do not think she feels any lingering doubt or anxiety?" Mary pressed.

"I am sure she does; it is only natural. If we were to wait to take any step until all doubts and anxieties had disappeared, then we should live very stagnant lives. And I trust my sister, Mary; she has always known her own mind."

He was looking at her as he said this, and for a moment Mary felt affronted at what she read as the implication in his words: that _she_ did not know her own mind, not so well as Rosamond apparently did. Her mouth opened with a half-formed rebuke, but then she deflated, for in truth, she realized, she did _not_ know her mind. If Robert were to ask her, at that moment, what she wanted, she would not know—anymore—what to tell him. Half of her blanched at the thought of being married, and living in London; but the other half had missed him far more than she had realized, and wanted nothing more than to revel in the warmth of him at her side.

"When do you return to London?" she said instead, changing the subject.

"A day or two after the wedding; my plans are not yet settled, but it is necessary that I return very soon. Why," he asked, teasingly; "are you eager to be rid of me?"

"Certainly not," Mary replied, with all the composure she could muster. "I was merely making polite conversation."

"I had understood that polite conversation is beneath us. Have we not long moved beyond the need for pleasantries?"

"I understand that it is customary, when seeing again a friend one has not seen for some time, to make some small, polite inquiries into the everyday affairs of his or her life."

"And now you have inquired."

"Yes; I have fulfilled what I consider to be my duty."

"Are there any small, polite inquiries you require from me?"

Mary considered. "You have already heard how my sister and nephews fare; and Kitty told everybody about Christmas at Pemberley. And so I think your duty has already been fulfilled for you."

And it was so effortless, to fall back into easy conversation with him—easier conversation than she enjoyed with almost anyone else, save perhaps Kitty; it was almost as though she had never left Bath. Again she felt how much she had missed him, and how much she had hidden it from herself. She swallowed hard.

"Do you find your work at St. Thomas's to be as fulfilling as you had hoped?" she asked.

"I do," he replied, thoughtfully, after a moment. "It is certainly different from my work in Bath."

"How so?"

"The cases are usually more severe, and very often they are ailments I have only ever read about; here in Bath, my experience was largely limited to cases of gout and nervous tension and broken bones, with one or two more serious complaints. But at St. Thomas's I feel, half the time, as though I am quite out of my depth; and yet I find the feeling somehow vitalizing."

"That is good," Mary said warmly. "You are taking the opportunity to learn and to grow in your field. There is no point in pursuing any activity, whether it is a gentleman's profession or a lady's accomplishment, if one already knows all that there is to know."

"I am sure my patients would not be particularly reassured if I shared that idea with them," Robert said. "But I take your meaning. I believe I am receiving the education for which I had hoped: I work all day, and I go home at night and read the works of physicians greater than myself."

Mary remembered the antique medical texts she had discovered in the library at Pemberley, and told him about them. He was interested, as she had known he would be.

"If ever I visit Pemberley," he said, "I will be sure to explore the library."

"The books are rather hidden," Mary said, "and I do not believe even Mr. Darcy knows that they are there; I shall have to help you find them. Perhaps when—"

She paused, for she had been about to say "perhaps when we are married," and flushed. Robert's eyes met her own. She could not tell whether he had guessed how she should have finished the sentence.

"Oh, Captain Finch," Kitty called suddenly, across the room, "are you leaving?"

The Finches had all risen, and begun to make their excuses.

"I am afraid so, Miss Katherine," Bertram Finch replied genially, bowing to her. "We are to dine with our aunt and uncle in Weston tonight, and I am afraid they will not brook any tardiness. I am sorry that we must break up such an agreeable party." He turned to help his sister Diana with her spencer.

Kitty's disappointment was plain upon her face, and Mary was surprised, for she had not seen her sister speaking with any members of that family.

"I will walk with you," Mrs. Fitzwilliam said; "I had not realized how late it is."

"Nor had I," Mrs. Hart agreed, rising.

"Then Mary and I will go along with you," Kitty said, "for we are staying near Carlton Road."

Mary would have liked to stay and talk more with Robert, but Kitty looked quite determined; and anyway, perhaps it would be best if she speak with him again only after she had begun to sort out her feelings. This, she was certain, could be accomplished overnight—she was a very logical person, after all—and so on the morrow she would be quite equal to his company.

And so they all set out from Hart House together; and Mary swiftly found herself abandoned by her sister, as Kitty made a beeline for Mr. Finch's side.

"I was sorry that we did not have an opportunity to speak earlier," Kitty said, rather breathlessly, as she caught up to him. "But I saw that you were sitting with your cousin, and did not want to interrupt."

"It would not have been a disagreeable interruption," Oliver replied, with a little smile that surprised her. She had expected him to blush and look away, as was his wont when paying any sort of compliment. "I am glad you arrived safely in Bath. Is it to be a long visit?"

"No; very short," Kitty answered, and though she had not minded so much (at least not as much as her mother had) when Mr. Bennet had made this decree, now she found it quite disagreeable. "No longer than a week."

"I am sorry to hear it."

"I hope we may have the opportunity of meeting often, while I am here," Kitty said, looking up to meet his dark eyes. She searched his gaze for the sudden wondrous spark of understanding and recognition of which she had dreamed so often…

But there was a burst of laughter from Oliver's siblings who walked ahead of them, which caught his attention momentarily. The spell, if there had been one, was broken.

"I have enjoyed our correspondence," he said, turning back to her, and _now _there was a hint of his regular diffidence in his voice.

"So have I," Kitty agreed, "for your letters always made me feel as if I were in Bath again, sitting and talking with you; but I must confess that it is even nicer to _really_ be here, and have the opportunity of _really_ talking with you."

"You are very kind, Miss Katherine. I am glad that you were able to return, even if only for a short time; I remember that you were not so certain, when you left here, that it would be possible."

"I was not certain that Papa would allow it," Kitty admitted, "for he has been very strict about keeping us at home, except when we have our sisters to attend us. But I think he was pleased that neither Mary nor I had eloped with anybody, or made any other hasty marriage, or gotten into any other sort of trouble while we were here, and so this is our reward. My father does not know," she added, more softly, "that he owes his relief in a large part to you."

Oliver shook his head. "It was you who refrained from taking that unfortunate step; all I did was loom threateningly beside you."

Kitty laughed aloud at this. "Indeed, you have a frame perfectly built for looming," she said cheerfully, and was pleased to see the gentleman blush, "and for rescuing damsels in distress."

"I think you give yourself too little credit, if you think yourself a damsel in distress," he replied, "for such creatures usually lack all sense and resourcefulness, and that is not true in your case."

"Thank you," Kitty said, touched.

They had reached the point where the Finches would turn northwest toward Weston, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam would turn north toward James Street, and there were fond farewells exchanged between them all. "Goodbye, Mr. Finch," Kitty said, curtsying low. "I hope we may meet again soon."

"I shall look forward to it," the gentleman replied, with a bow, and then he turned to join his siblings.

Kitty did not quite know what to make of their conversation; she puzzled over it as she and Mary and Mrs. Hart walked along toward Carlton Gardens, and as she and Mary and Mrs. Bennet ate their dinner of cold meat and bread, and as she and Mary undressed that evening in their shared bedroom at the top of the house, which was even smaller than the one at Henry Street.

Of course she realized that her expectations had been too high; it was only in books that the hero, faced with the first sight of his beloved after a long separation, clasped her passionately in his arms. Yet she could not help wishing that their conversation had been less formal, and more like the long familiar letters that had flown back and forth between them over the past months. She felt as if she knew him _so_ well, _so_ completely, that all their polite civilities were somehow insulting—as though they implied that she and Oliver were merely mutual friendly acquaintances, and nothing more.

But, she reminded herself, as far as she knew, Oliver _might_ consider her nothing more than a friendly acquaintance or, at the most, a good friend. The thought pained her, for despite all her efforts to remain detached, she had begun unconsciously assuming that her role would merely be to speak the words that both of them felt—not to try and win the love of a gentleman who had never looked at her in such a light. She was not at all certain that she was equal to this task, especially if he were still in love with Rosamond, and worry began to gnaw at her breast.

She did her best to distract herself. "Well, Mary," she said, affecting a cheerful tone, "did you find Robert as you remembered him?"

Mary glanced at her. "I did indeed," she said, trying to sound unaffected.

"Do you think you shall marry him?"

"The question is not _will I_, but _when will I_."

"And when will you?" Kitty asked.

Mary bit her lip, trying to stem the flow of words; but they burst out of her anyway. "I don't know!" she said, rather miserably. "I have been attempting to examine my feelings on the subject, but I cannot discern a conclusive answer. I was quite convinced, a week ago, that I should prefer to wait at least another year or so; but now that I am here, and have spoken to him, I am not at all certain if that is what I want."

She looked up to meet Kitty's eyes. To her surprise, her sister was not smiling or laughing, and did not look ready to tease. Instead she looked very thoughtful.

"Have you no course of action to propose?" Mary asked, a little bitterly. "Will you not encourage me to run to him and throw myself into his arms?"

"Only if that is what you wish," Kitty said, with a small shrug.

"And then there are _his_ feelings to consider," Mary went on, the thought having just occurred to her; "I cannot say whether he is in as much confusion as I am, or whether he desires to be married now, or whether he should like to wait longer. And so however laborious may be the process of choosing my own course of action, I cannot be guaranteed that my wishes, whatever they may be, will be in accord with his."

"No," Kitty said, "you cannot. We can never be assured of another's thoughts or feelings for us; all we can do is take the risks that are presented."

Mary frowned at her. "You are taking this far more seriously than I had expected. Have you truly no advice for me?" She did not mean the question to sound as plaintive as it did.

Kitty smiled at last. "No, Mary, no advice—only to take Jane's counsel, and do what makes you happiest."

The problem, Mary thought, was that she did not _know_ what would make her happiest—not anymore. But Kitty's words were kindly meant, and she did not say anything of her doubts. Instead she returned her sister's smile, a little tremulously, and they both went to bed without speaking any more upon the subject.

* * *

Rosamond Hart was, as Kitty had once pointed out, a young lady of unusual good fortune; and so it was no surprise to anybody that the day of her wedding, despite being preceded by two days of drizzle, furnished a beaming sun in the glorious blue sky, the sounds of birdsong in all the blossoming trees, and a promise of coming summer in the warm breeze. Kitty, dressing in her prettiest pale pink muslin, was cheered by the beautiful weather; but she could not help a little tremor of anxiety, even as she examined herself in the looking-glass. She had not seen Oliver Finch since they had met at the Harts' three days ago, and knew that today must be the day she made her declaration to him.

Mary, too, regarded the day's event with mingled pleasure and trepidation. She still could not say, definitively, where her heart lay.

The Adlam family was of enough importance that it had been no hardship for the viscount to secure Bath Abbey for the ceremony. It was the first time the Bennets had been inside the Abbey, for during their previous stay in the city, they had attended services at one of the smaller, less fashionable churches. The regal façade of the Abbey was no stranger to them, as the building lay very near the Pump Room and the Roman Baths; but the exterior could not match the grandeur of the interior, with its gleaming white fluted columns stretching toward the sky and bright sunlight dappling the white stone floors and the carved wooden pews.

"Should you not like to be married in such a place, my dears?" Mrs. Bennet whispered breathlessly to her daughters. Mary pursed her lips.

The church was full, both the Harts and the Adlams being popular families in their circles, and everybody was dressed very fine—but of course nobody, even the Honorable Miss Adlams in their London fashions, who acted as bridesmaids alongside Rosamond's sisters, could compare to the loveliness of the bride. Rose, arrayed in her wedding-clothes and lit by the clean light of the Abbey, was radiant, as any proper bride ought to be. Her cheeks were flushed, her large eyes were bright (possibly with tears—Kitty was seated too far back to see properly), and her gold hair, lit by the sunlight which filtered through the stained glass windows, shone under her delicate veil. She did not stop beaming throughout the entire ceremony, nor, for that matter, did the gentleman who would be her husband. (He, too, looked very handsome in his wedding-clothes; but of course hardly anybody, save his lady, was looking at _him_.)

The ceremony was neither too long nor too brief, and everybody agreed afterwards that it had been very beautiful indeed. Miss Hart became Lady Adlam, and there were a great many tears among her friends and family; Kitty, too, wept a little, out of happiness for her friend, and Mrs. Bennet, who could never keep from crying at a wedding, muffled her soft sobs in her handkerchief. Even Lord Adlam's three sisters did not look entirely unmoved, and Kitty was pleased to see them each embrace Rosamond with something approaching real warmth.

Then they were all leaving the church, and the happy couple paused to greet everybody, to thank them for their attendance and, with many blushes and smiles, to receive their congratulations.

"My dear Miss Hart!" Mrs. Bennet trilled, when the newlyweds reached them; then she swiftly corrected herself, "Of course, I mean, Lady Adlam! How fine you are in your wedding-clothes! How fortunate you are, sir!"—this last, of course, to his Lordship.

Rosamond thanked her, laughing, as Lord Adlam declared his hearty agreement. To Kitty and Mary each the new viscountess afforded a fond embrace and a light kiss upon the cheek. "Perhaps your turn may come sooner than you think," she whispered in Kitty's ear, and in Mary's, "I shall be glad indeed when you share my happiness!"

But there was not time for anything further to be said.

The Upper Rooms had been rented for the evening's celebration, and by the time the Bennets arrived, they were already quite full. It reminded Kitty very much of all the balls they had attended within these walls: the musicians seated in the alcove, the windows open to allow the spring breeze through, the skirts and coattails of the dancers swirling as they moved. It was not yet fully dark, but the chandeliers were lit and glittered merrily. The room was decorated with garlands and bunches of springtime flowers, the same peonies and sweet peas which had spilled alluringly from Rosamond's wedding bouquet.

Kitty's heart lifted at the sight of all this gaiety, so familiar and natural. For a moment she was swept by a great wave of longing for Bath, for its ballrooms and dinner-tables but also for its streets and parks and houses. She remembered walking through Guilford Market with Rosamond, and felt a sudden sharp pang of nostalgia which she knew to be quite foolish.

"Be sure to find Lady Adlam, my dear," Mrs. Bennet hissed in her ear, "and be sure that she introduces you to her husband's friends!"

"Mamma," Kitty objected, half-laughing and half-annoyed, "we are only to be here for a few days more; even _you_ cannot secure a titled husband for me in such a short time!"

"Perhaps not, my love, but there is always the chance that you may meet these gentlemen again when you go to London in the winter, and then you will have an acquaintance upon which to build," Mrs. Bennet replied shrewdly. "Go now, both of you, and sit by her Ladyship!"

Mary and Kitty obligingly moved into the cheerful crowd, as Mrs. Bennet made her way toward the refreshments; but her Ladyship was not, in fact, available for them to sit by. Mary soon pointed her out upon the dance-floor with her husband.

"Well, we may not interfere with _that_," Kitty said decisively, "and so Mamma will simply have to be disappointed in us." She was scanning the ballroom for Oliver, but could not catch sight of him. "Have you seen Robert, Mary?"

But she need not have asked, for at that moment there was a gentle hand upon Mary's elbow, and Robert stood beside them.

"I am glad to see you both," he said, with greater enthusiasm than either of them had expected from him. He offered each sister an arm; Kitty, still unable to see Oliver Finch, was happy enough to accept Robert's courtesy for the moment. The three of them cut a path through the crowd, pausing every few steps for Robert to smile and nod his thanks at some expression of congratulations for his twin.

"You must be very pleased upon this occasion, Mr. Hart," Kitty said, when it became apparent that Mary was not going to speak. Robert turned to look down at her, and his face split into a grin.

"It is wonderful to see my sister made happy," he replied, and though the words themselves did not convey any great zeal, his expression was sincere. "We are all pleased for her."

"Do you think it will be strange, not to have her Hart House anymore?" Kitty asked carelessly, still searching the assembly. She saw the eldest Mr. Finch and the two younger Miss Finches upon the dance-floor, but of the rest of the family there was no sign.

"It will be strange, I think, but not in a bad way. It is not any misfortune that takes her from Hart House—quite the opposite."

"I hope you will have the opportunity to visit her often." Where _was_ he?

"I shall, as often as my work—and her patience—allows. She is already promising our younger sister a London debut, which pleases Juliet beyond all reason, and makes our father rather nervous. I think he would rather Julie spend time at Locksby than Breezewood."

Kitty smiled at him. "Your father and mine are not so dissimilar then."

They sat down together in a cluster of chairs at the edge of the dance-floor. It was not long before Mr. Carpenter came to seek Kitty's hand, and the whirl of the ball began in earnest. She danced with Mr. Carpenter and his brother, with Captain Finch, with both of the Mr. Harts, with Mr. Hargreve, and Mr. Hammond, and Mr. Bontecou, and one or two of Lord Adlam's friends (courtesy of Rosamond—a sight which very much pleased her mother, when she came back into the ballroom); she even danced a lively reel alongside Rosamond and Lord Adlam, with Theodore and Anne at her other side, which resulted in all of them laughing together in exhilaration once it had ended.

"I declare I must sit down; I am quite exhausted!" Rosamond exclaimed, leaning upon her husband as they left the dance-floor; and Lord Adlam, upon depositing his bride in a chair, immediately ventured off to fetch her some wine.

"He already dotes upon you," Theo Hart said, in mock disgust.

"Yes," Rosamond said, cheerfully, "I suppose I shall eventually have to break him of that habit; a physician's daughter is not accustomed to being doted upon, after all."

"A physician's daughter may not be, but a viscountess shall probably have to endure it," Anne said, and Rosamond gave an embarrassed little laugh and looked away, as if she had forgotten her new title.

But even this agreeable company could not make Kitty forget the object of her evening, and even as she danced and laughed and talked, her eyes scanned the room for Oliver. She caught sight of him once or twice, dancing with his sisters or talking with his friends, but he made no move to come speak with her; and her steady stream of engagements—as well as her nerves—kept her from going to him. (What could she say, anyway, in a ballroom?)

At length, however, she glanced away from her present partner (Mr. Seabrook) to see Oliver's broad shoulders ducking through the doorframe into the Octagon Room. As the cotillion ended a moment later, she steeled her resolve, and followed him.

The Octagon Room was crowded with people standing and talking, cups of wine or pastries in their hands. There was no sign of Oliver. She went down the corridor, to look into the card room, and the tea room, but he was not to be found. And so she made her way back along the corridor, and pushed open the doors to the vestibule.

Outside it had grown dark. A pale silver moon hung in the dark blue sky, and cast a soft glow over the world beneath. The scent of peonies and sweet peas hung in the air; a quiet spring breeze gently lifted a few stray petals from the cobblestones. The musicians had begun one of the slower dances, and the song reached them through the open upper windows of the ballroom. Kitty's heart began to beat faster.

Oliver stood a few feet from the door, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, apparently admiring the stars. They were quite alone.

Kitty hesitated for a moment; the speech she had composed, everything she had wanted to say, had momentarily fled her mind. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and went to stand beside him. He turned to her with a little smile.

"Hello, Miss Katherine."

_Hello_, Kitty meant to respond, and then, _Mr. Finch, there is something I feel I must say to you, and I hope you will not think me exceedingly forward._

Instead she burst out "I hope you are not pining for her!"

Oliver's eyes went very wide and startled, and Kitty would have thought the effect comical if she had not been so mortified. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her face burning.

"Forgive me," she gasped, after a moment. "That was very impertinent—it was…it was not at all what I wished to say—"

Oliver was still staring at her, as if she were quite mad. "Pining," he said, slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton, "for whom?"

Kitty frowned. "For—for Rose," she answered, faltering, as the look of surprise upon his face evolved to an expression of utter shock. "You need not deny it. I know very well your feelings for her."

"My _feelings_ for her?"

"Yes," Kitty replied, for a moment annoyed by his incredulity. "You do not know what I mean?"

"I think I do know what you mean, Miss Katherine," Oliver replied, and he looked quite as mortified as she felt. "You…believe me to be in love with Lady Adlam?"

Kitty was confused; his astonishment seemed so sincere, so unlike a patent denial, that a possibility at once comforting and embarrassing was now dawning upon her. "Why, yes," she said, "since the first time we met, last summer. You two are so intimate," she added, her brow furrowed, "and so much in each others' confidence; and you are always visiting Hart House, and walking about with her—"

"We are _friends_!" he interrupted, with more vehemence than she had ever heard in his voice.

"But you always dance with her at every ball, when you will not dance with any other young lady; and you show her such preference!"

Oliver was red-faced. "Only because I am better acquainted with her than with anybody else; and that," he went on, his voice dropping, "is largely because she is amiable, and kind, and easy to talk to; and I am—not very charming in company."

He looked rather miserable, and glanced away as he said it. Kitty's heart suddenly melted with affection, and she wished nothing more than to wrap her arms about him.

"You are perfectly charming," she declared warmly, "only quiet. And _that_ is nothing to be ashamed of; indeed I quite like it. I am sorry if I embarrassed you," she added, feeling her own embarrassment fade as hope took hold of her. "Sometimes I convince myself of things, and I cannot be told otherwise, even if the things of which I am convinced are not at all true. I did not mean to say anything at all, and I wish I had not."

He met her eyes. "No," he said, "I am glad that you did. It is always best to cure any misapprehensions between friends. And I am glad to be allowed to call myself your friend."

"So am I," Kitty said warmly, taking another step toward him.

Oliver looked away again. "I have very much enjoyed writing to you, Miss Katherine," he remarked, with studied carelessness. The back of his neck was endearingly red.

"Yes," Kitty replied, amused, "so you said."

"I am glad of the opportunity to come to know you better. I feel as if we never had much opportunity to converse, when you were last here in Bath."

"Well," Kitty said, "my mind was otherwise engaged at that time, upon silly things like balls and parties, and I was not very much given to sensible conversation. But now I wish I had not been so foolish, and had taken the time to talk with you. If I may judge by our correspondence, I think there are few people in Bath whose conversation I enjoy more."

He gave a small smile. "You are very kind."

"I am not being _kind_," Kitty insisted. "I am being honest."

"Well, then," he said, "thank you."

Another silence fell between them, interrupted only by a faint burst of applause and laughter as the dance inside finished. Kitty swallowed hard.

"Mr. Finch," she began, hesitantly, "a great deal has changed, since I was last in Bath. _I_ have changed. I have realized that things I was used to think very important are not important at all, and that things which I never once considered are in fact quite necessary to my happiness."

He was looking at her now, but she saw no dawning of comprehension. She frowned. Why did he not take her meaning?

"I mean," she went on, "that I am not the same young lady I was, and I do not care about the same things. That is, I still enjoy balls and parties and so on, but not in the way I once did. And I could no longer agree to spend the rest of my life with somebody simply because they danced well, and flirted with me."

Oliver's brow was furrowed. Kitty sighed.

"_You_ do not dance very well, Mr. Finch," she hinted, "and you have never once flirted with me."

At this, he went red. "I should never wish to presume," he said stiffly.

"I know that; and I am glad of it. I could never be happy with somebody who went about _presuming_. And I think, Mr. Finch, if—if it should please you, as well as it should please me—which is very well indeed—what I mean to say, sir, is that if you cared to have it so, I think I could be very happy with you."

The only response she received was silence. Kitty swallowed hard, again, and looked down at her hands, which were twisting nervously together before her.

"I _know_ I could be happy with you," she mumbled, feeling a hot flush of humiliation rise to her face. She could not bear to look at him.

"Miss Katherine—" he said, very quietly, after a long moment.

"You are so good," she burst out. "Before, when I was so foolish, I thought you were dull; but you are not at all. You are kind, and honorable, and clever, and very—very _good_. I know that I am shallow and thoughtless, and not nearly so good as you are, and very selfish; but it is that selfishness which convinces me that you are the only man in the world with whom I could ever live, happily, for none of the other gentlemen of my acquaintance are _anything_ to you, Mr. Finch. I am very sorry to embarrass you again, but I feel that I must speak my piece. Forgive me."

She cut herself off there with a little gasp, feeling that she would certainly ramble on unforgivably if she did not, and held her breath. She still could not look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her.

"Miss Katherine," he said again. "I do not think you are shallow or thoughtless."

Kitty did not reply.

"My opinion of you must be quite contrary to your own," Oliver continued. "For I think you a compassionate friend, a loving sister, a dutiful daughter and a young woman of sense and understanding, who wishes for those around her to be happy, and tries to make them so. Nor do I think you are selfish—no more than you ought to be, for love is always selfish, in its own way. I hope," he said, haltingly, "that I have not got it wrong; I hope that you are speaking of—of love."

"I am," she whispered.

"And if you _are_ selfish, Miss Katherine," he went on, "then I am as selfish as you are, and for the same reason."

Kitty risked a glance at him. He was blushing fiercely, as she had known he would be; but he was also smiling. Her heart began to pound hard again. Oliver took another step toward her, and carefully, hesitantly, put out his hands. She gave him hers without a second thought, hardly daring to breathe. He knelt.

"I understand it is customary, upon these occasions, to make a speech of some grandeur," Oliver said, "and to offer a great many compliments, which I can surely—"

"No," Kitty interrupted, laughing breathlessly, for she had had quite enough grand speeches and pretty compliments for a lifetime, and _that_ was not why she loved him, "only say the words!"

He did so, red-faced and nervous and without much suavity; and she gave her response, and then threw herself into his arms happily.

"And for heaven's sake, my dear," she added, laughing, "do stop calling me _Miss Katherine_!"

* * *

"I meant to tell you," Robert said, "that my plans have been settled. I return to London tomorrow."

He and Mary were dancing a clumsy quadrille together, which had begun with pleasant conversation, and had lapsed into a companionable silence a few moments ago; but now Mary's gaze snapped toward him, and she froze for a half-second, forgetting that she was upon the dance-floor. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes; it is quite unavoidable. I wish that I could stay longer. It is an unfortunate irony that you should return to Bath only to see me leave it."

Mary stared at him. He spoke quite casually; although his regret was plain, it did not seem to be overwhelming him. "Do you—do you not think we ought to talk together, before you go?"

"We _are_ talking together, Mary," he said, rather teasingly. She shook her head.

"But I mean—" She hesitated. He glanced at her, and seemed to comprehend.

"Oh," he said, the laughter fading from his eyes.

They danced silently. Mary was turning his words over in her mind. _Tomorrow_. She had known, of course, that they would be obliged to separate again, and soon; but she had not expected it to be _so_ soon. Indeed some small part of her had rather hoped that he would be able to stay until the end of the week, though he had thought it unlikely; _she_ had expected to do the leaving, not to be the one saying goodbye. And to think that this was the last she would see of him, until—until—

She could not think when they would meet again. The thought brought a hard and unexpected lump to her throat.

The quadrille ended, and they stepped apart, applauding politely. Then Robert gave her his arm and led her, silently, past their friends, and into the Octagon Room, which was full; then into the quiet tea room. The other guests had availed themselves freely of the refreshments, and only a few pastries remained.

"Are you hungry?" he asked politely. Mary shook her head.

A few clusters of people sat together at the little tables. One group called merrily to Robert to come and join them, but he resisted, and after a moment they returned to their conversation. Robert deposited Mary at a table a little removed from the others, and sat down beside her.

"Now," he said, looking at her very gravely, "what did you wish to say?"

Mary frowned. This was the problem; she did not know what she wished to say. For three days she had struggled with the question, and had failed to arrive at any conclusive answer. Failures of decision were a not a familiar concept to Mary Bennet, and she disliked intensely the feeling of helplessness which pervaded her when she could not answer a question. She was very much accustomed to being able to reason things through, and to arrive at a definitive solution which was supported by all her understanding of logic and morality, and which therefore allowed her a comfortable satisfaction.

"Do you falter because you think your words will offend me," Robert asked, "or because you cannot be sure of my response?"

"Both, perhaps," Mary replied, a little relieved that he had asked a question she _could_ answer. "Uncertainty is never agreeable, and I shall not ask your forgiveness for allowing it to cause some hesitation on my part."

"The best way to combat uncertainty, Mary, is to address it. Speak what is in your mind, and you shall know my response."

Mary sighed. "It is not that simple."

"Such things never are."

"No," Mary said, annoyed, "the problem is that I do not know what is in my mind. Or rather, I do, but the two halves of the answer are of such conflicting natures that I cannot come to any resolution."

"Then tell me the two halves of the answer, and perhaps we may come to a resolution together."

And so, encouraged by the seriousness of his tone, she told him. "The question (largely put to me by my sisters) is whether we should take this occasion of our reunion to make our—attachment into a formal engagement, and perhaps even plan to be married soon. This, I understand, was the question we had always planned to ask ourselves periodically, but I cannot say anymore where my desire lies. There is some part of me which desires, very greatly, to be your wife; but there is another part which is not yet ready to give up my solitude."

"And these two parts," Robert said, "are they of roughly equal size? Does neither possess even the slightest dominion over the other?"

"There are moments when one or the other has the advantage," was Mary's rather miserable response, "but they trade places so swiftly that I can hardly come to a conclusive answer. At times I think it would be the greatest misery of my life to separate from you again, even temporarily."

Robert looked rather pleased at this.

"But at other times I think I should rather die than trade London for Meryton," she added, "even if it meant being your wife."

His delight faded, and he frowned. "Never say you should rather _die_," he said. "It puts an unpleasant image in my mind."

"I am sorry. But those are the facts of the case: and if you are more able to sort it out definitively than I am, I wish you joy of it. I suppose my answer to the question," she said thoughtfully, "depends in large part upon your own."

Robert shook his head. "Your feelings appear to be so unreliable that you will not be completely happy, no matter what I say. If I were to propose to you now, for example, I imagine part of you should rejoice, but the other part should mourn. Or if I were to say that I should not like to be married for another few years—part of you should be pleased, but the other part should be left unsatisfied."

Mary saw the truth in this, but she was impatient. "Let us proceed from hypotheticals, Robert," she said. "What _is_ your answer? You need not be afraid of how it will affect me. Only speak frankly, as I know is your wont, and I shall be well enough whatever you say."

He gave her a little smile. "My answer is not so different from your own. I have missed you, Mary, and I should like to have you by my side, but not if it would not make you perfectly happy. On the other side, I know that whatever further separation we may endure will not be so disagreeable: Rosamond will invite us all to Locksby whenever possible, and Breezewood if you should consent to a short residence in Town, and of course Lord Adlam comes here to Bath every Season. So I think that I could _bear_ being apart from you again—though I would not particularly _enjoy_ it—so long as I knew that it was temporary."

"We have already agreed that it _will_ be temporary," Mary said. "It is only the duration which is in question. And it is a question I should like to have answered before you return to London."

Robert sat back in his chair, brow furrowed. "Then we are at impasse. Neither course of action pleases both of us entirely."

They sat in silence for a long moment. The tea room had begun to empty while they were speaking and now, Mary realized, they were quite alone. She could not remember the last time she had been alone with Robert.

"Well," Robert said, at last, "if we cannot trust our feelings to guide us, let us trust our reason and judgment. What does your rational side tell you, Mary?"

Mary swallowed. "That a marriage ill-timed is a marriage ill-made, and that one should never marry without absolute certainty."

Robert nodded, although he did not look entirely pleased. "I cannot presently support a wife upon my income—at least, not well. Nor am I enough at home to make good company for you, if you _did_ come to Town with me; you should be largely left to your own devices, and whatever love you have for me may very well be outweighed by your distaste for an extended residence in London. Let us, then, separate now, and continue as we have."

Mary bit her lip. Part of her, as she predicted, was quite desolate at his words; and yet the other part was wholly relieved. She recognized, at least, the sense in what he said.

"But this decision," he added, "unlike so many others, is entirely reversible. Always know, Mary, that if you return to Hertfordshire and find that you have made the wrong choice, and cannot bear another day without me," he grinned, "then all you need do is write to me, and I will come, and speak to your father. And you may be Mrs. Hart as soon as you please."

Mary smiled at him, and reached across the table to lay her hand gently over his own. His hand was warm, and he turned it over so their palms touched. Another silence fell, this one more settled than the last.

At length, "Mrs. Hart," Mary said thoughtfully. "I begin to see what you meant, now, when you told me of your distaste for always sharing a name with somebody else. I shall always be the second Mrs. Hart, and you always the second Dr. Hart."

"We shall have to move somewhere away from my family," Robert agreed, "so that we are always the only Harts in the neighborhood."

"Shall you make that a criterion, when you are eventually selecting a location in which to establish your practice?"

"The primary criterion: if there are any other Harts in the vicinity, I shall immediately look elsewhere."

"But it must not be _too_ far from your family; I should like to visit them, on occasion."

"Then that is another criterion. Far enough from my family that we are not confused with them, but near enough that we may take advantage of their hospitality and have them invite us to concerts. It must be a small town, more akin to a village, really; and it must be green and quiet, with many walking-paths so that my wife may take all the exercise she pleases. And trees, under which she may sit and read to her heart's content. And the house must have space for a pianoforte."

Mary gave a little laugh. "I do not imagine that my pianoforte should survive a relocation, even to such a tranquil place; it is quite old, and not in the finest condition."

"I am not speaking of _your_ pianoforte," he said, grinning. "At least not the one you have now. I hope it will not alarm you to know that I have already overheard Rose and her husband discussing possible wedding-gifts for us."

In fact the emotion Mary felt upon hearing this was quite the opposite of alarm, and she clasped their fingers together, her mind already roaming upon the green fields and quiet glades of the place, unknown just now, which would someday be their home.

"I imagine we should return to the ballroom," Robert said quietly, squeezing her hand. "Your mother and sister will be looking for you."

Mary rather doubted this; she had not seen Kitty in some time, and imagined that her sister was happily engaged somewhere, not thinking of Mary at all. But Robert was moving to stand, and she rose as well to stand beside him.

And then she was overtaken by some madness of immodesty and, with scarcely more than a glance about the room to ensure that they were really alone, she surged forward, and placed her hands gently upon Robert's shoulders, and pressed her lips to his.

He seemed shocked for an instant; and then she felt his hands settling carefully upon her waist, and the firmer press of his lips against her own. The feeling made her stomach swoop unexpectedly, and she closed her eyes.

The kiss lasted only a moment before Mary, suddenly becoming fully aware of the impropriety of _kissing_ a _gentleman_ to whom she was _not married_, broke the embrace by stumbling back, red-faced and hardly able to meet Robert's eyes. For his own part, he looked rather stunned, and there were spots of red high upon his cheeks, but there was no censure or displeasure in his expression—far from it.

"I—I—" Mary stammered, as he stared at her. "Forgive me; I do not know what I was thinking—I have never done such a thing before. It was quite indecent of me—forgive me."

"It is quite all right," Robert said, unconsciously pressing a disbelieving hand to his mouth. This action only made Mary blush more hotly, and she averted her eyes.

"Shall—" she cleared her throat. "Shall we return to the ballroom?"

Robert nodded, still looking quite shocked, but with the hint of a smile playing about his mouth. He offered her his arm, and she took it gladly.

She stopped him again, however, just before they reached the doors of the tea room. "Robert," she said, "I should like you to know that I—I love you."

He turned to her in surprise, and she looked away from him again.

"I do not think I have ever told you so before," Mary said, consumed with embarrassment, "but I trust my feelings upon the subject, and I should always like us to be perfectly candid with one another."

Robert smiled. "Then, in the spirit of perfect candor," he answered, "I love you, too."

Mary swallowed, and blushed, and nodded. "Thank you," she said, "for your candor."

Robert pushed open the doors, and they returned to the ballroom.


	25. Chapter 25

Just as Kitty's declaration to Oliver had not gone quite as she had imagined it—at least not until the very end—so, too, her mother's reaction was not quite what she had hoped for, though she supposed it was what she ought to have expected.

Mrs. Bennet was puzzled, early on the morning after the Adlams' wedding, to receive Mr. Finch in the dusty little drawing-room of their rented lodgings, and would have been even more puzzled had she noticed the spark in Kitty's eyes as the gentleman was shown into the room. Mary, more observant than her mother, was a little surprised at the smile that lit her sister's face; but she was not quite so obtuse as she pretended, and so was not wholly shocked at the announcement which soon followed.

There are only so many combinations of words which a gentleman can reasonably employ in such a situation, and Oliver Finch managed the matter as straightforwardly as he could, albeit with characteristic awkwardness. "Mrs. Bennet," he said, standing tall before the hearth with hands clasped behind him, "I should like to inform you of my intention to call upon your honorable husband, as soon as is convenient for him, and request your daughter's hand."

Mrs. Bennet was momentarily dumbstruck. "Her hand, sir?" she said, and then, to clarify, "Which daughter?"

"Why—Miss Katherine," Oliver replied, blushing, and Kitty cried laughingly, "_Me_, of course, Mamma; Mary is already quite spoken for!"

Mrs. Bennet, of course, disagreed with this estimation of Mary's prospects, but she brushed it aside in favor of the more pressing matter at hand. "You mean you would like to marry Kitty, Mr. Finch?" she said, bemused.

"Yes—that is—if it is agreeable to her—and to you, of course, and to Mr. Bennet."

"You already know that it is agreeable to _me_," Kitty said, smiling warmly up at him, and reaching to clasp his hand. Mrs. Bennet's eyes widened at this plain display of affection.

"I am afraid, sir," she said, carefully, "that this comes as quite a surprise to me; I had not realized that you and my Kitty were so—well acquainted."

Mr. Finch looked rather embarrassed, but did not say anything.

"It ought not be _so_ surprising, Mother," Mary broke in. "They have corresponded for months, now, and I think it only natural that their friendship should have given way to an increase in affection. Indeed, I believe that is the most natural and rational way in which these things _can_ come about. I am very happy for you both," she added, "and I could not imagine a more fitting match."

Kitty beamed at her, and Oliver cast her a grateful look.

"I suppose you speak sense, Mary," Mrs. Bennet admitted, although rather grudgingly, for she did not really think so. "And if it is truly what Kitty wants, then I can see no reason to protest the engagement." She looked as though she wished to say more, but held her tongue. She knew well enough, after all, to be at least a little grateful for the role Mr. Finch had played in the Price affair; and anyway Kitty _did_ look very happy.

"I am very glad to hear it," Oliver said, his relief evident upon his features.

And so it was settled that Mr. Finch would write immediately to Mr. Bennet, and request an audience with him at Longbourn; and in the meantime, he invited Mrs. Bennet and her daughters to dine with him at Larkhall the following day, an invitation which was accepted enthusiastically by the daughters and a little less so by the mother.

There followed a few minutes of conversation, mainly between Kitty and her betrothed, with Mary interjecting at intervals; but it is difficult to follow a major announcement with desultory chatter, and anyway Mr. Finch had other business in town, and was soon obliged to take his leave. Kitty walked with him to the door, her hand tucked securely into the crook of his elbow; and if their farewells took them a little longer than was strictly necessary, certainly nobody would be so cruel as to comment upon the fact.

"Kitty!" Mrs. Bennet cried, as soon as the door shut behind their visitor and her daughter returned to the drawing-room, "Whatever is the meaning of this?"

"Only that I love Mr. Finch, Mamma," Kitty answered, taking her seat, "and wish to marry him."

"But my _dear_!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "How sudden this all is! Are you quite certain—have you thought it all through?"

Kitty gave a rueful little laugh. "I have done nothing _but_ think it through," she said, "since Christmastide at least, when I realized that I loved him, and began to hope that he might love me. And he told me last night that he _does_—love me, I mean—and so I am going to marry him."

"But—" Mrs. Bennet stared at her. "Mr. _Finch_? To be sure he is handsome; but he has no conversation at all, and scarcely speaks when in company. He is so dull, my girl, and so serious!"

"That is precisely why he needs me," Kitty said, "because he is so serious, and I can make him smile, and even laugh. And I need him to make me be serious sometimes, and to think more carefully about things. And he is not _dull_, Mamma; he only does not talk about silly things like balls and parties. In truth he is quite interesting—quite worth the trouble of making conversation. He is clever, and thoughtful, and kind, and wonderful, and I love him."

Mrs. Bennet was still gaping. "Are you sure, child," she pressed, "that you do not wish to wait until after you have gone to London, and met all of the gentlemen there? There is no need to settle upon Mr. Finch just yet; I do not think matters have come to _that_. You might find somebody else among Lord Adlam's connections who strikes your fancy, and has a fine fortune as well. "

"I have had my fancy struck more than enough for one lifetime," Kitty said firmly, though not without good humor. "I know perfectly well that Oliver shall make me happy."

"But he is a _clergyman_, my dear!"

"I do not see why _that _should count against him," Mary interjected. "I imagine your disapproval stems from the fact that it is not a particularly fashionable profession, but it is in many ways one of the worthiest professions a gentleman can have. I think Mr. Finch among the best gentlemen of our acquaintance, and I think Kitty has chosen very wisely indeed."

"There was no choice to be made," Kitty confided, smiling; "it was him, or nobody."

At this Mrs. Bennet let out a little groan, and pressed her hand to her forehead. "What ill you are doing to my nerves!" she gasped. "All the viscounts and marquesses of Town within your reach, and you wish to marry a clergyman! I declare I do not understand, nor, I think, do I wish to!"

"You do not need to understand, Mamma," Kitty said, more gently. "You only need to trust me. I am not the silly girl I was before; I could not now marry a gentleman merely because he was handsome, or rich, or charming, or fashionable. I do not mind that Oliver is a clergyman, or that I shan't have a fine town-house and two carriages—I might have minded a year ago, but now it seems the silliest thing in the world upon which to fix one's hopes. When I was engaged to Mr. Price," she went on hesitantly, a lump growing in her throat, "I could never see myself _talking_ with him. I thought of how it would be to be married to him and I could not see us sitting and talking together; it was always assemblies and dinner-parties and that sort of thing, with other people all around to entertain us."

"And what is wrong with that?" Mrs. Bennet demanded.

"That is not life, Mamma. I used to think it was, but now I see that I was quite mistaken. One cannot base a marriage upon how well two people dance together."

She wished to add more, but was not quite sure how to say what she meant: the words escaped her just then.

Mrs. Bennet sat watching her for a long moment, her disappointment still evident. "If, when I was nineteen," she said, at last, "I had been as pretty as you are, and had had an intimate friend in the peerage who might have introduced me to a great many single gentlemen of rank and fortune, and thereby might have been able to marry very well indeed, and been Lady So-and-So for all my days—"

"Then you would not have married Papa," Kitty interrupted, laughing, "and you would not have had my sisters and I to bedevil you, and would have spent all your days very bored indeed, Lady So-and-So or not. Nay, Mamma, there is no good in _that_ argument; you cannot convince me that I am choosing a-wrong!"

Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips; but indeed it did not seem as though her daughter would be persuaded otherwise, and so at length she gave another long sigh, and said, "Well, if it is what you wish, then I suppose _I _cannot stop you; for heaven knows nobody ever listens to me, nor takes my opinions into consideration, nor does what I think they ought to do, even when I have only their best interests at heart, and perhaps know more about the world than they do."

This was as much affirmation as Kitty could hope for, and she took it with much better humor than it was given, rising from her seat to kiss her mother gratefully upon the head. Then, in a fit of good spirits, she pulled Mary from her seat and twirled her around the room.

"How happy I am!" she exclaimed, letting her disgruntled sister pull away after a moment. "Though you do not believe me, Mamma, I am sure I shall die of happiness! Come, Mary, let us go out somewhere, and do something, for it is a beautiful day and I shall go mad if we sit inside all morning."

Mary was in fact eager to go to Hart House, for it was the day of Robert's return to London and, despite some lingering embarrassment from the previous night, she was loath to let him leave without saying goodbye. Kitty, upon hearing this, was quite determined that Mary and Robert should have a suitably touching farewell, and after only a few more minutes, the sisters set out together.

* * *

Mary was a little flustered when they arrived, for it was only the family gathered in the drawing room at Hart House: Dr. Hart and little Juliet; the Bontecous and their son; Theo and Anne and their daughter; Rosamond and Lord Adlam; and, of course, Robert himself, his riding-coat draped over the back of his chair. "I fear we may be imposing," Mary hissed in Kitty's ear, as they were shown in; but Kitty, buoyed by her own happy spirits, took no heed, and cried, "How glad we are that we did not miss your departure, Mr. Hart!"

The family turned to them, and Mary steeled herself for some gracious rebuff; but Robert gave her a little smile and a bow. "I am glad, too," he said to Kitty.

"Robert was just saying how much he should miss his Bath friends," Dr. Hart said pleasantly.

"And I believe the Miss Bennets were at the very _top _of that list," Theo added with a grin. "I am sure that if you had not come here of your own volition, we would have been obliged to send a carriage, or there would have been no peace at all in this house."

"There will never be peace in this house, Theo, so long as you are within its walls," Robert answered, prompting a surprised snort of laughter from Lord Adlam and a fond but long-suffering sigh from Dr. Hart.

It was a very agreeable party, though there had been only a few hours of separation between them (and, in some cases, none at all). The Harts were not a family who frequently found themselves at a loss for conversation; before long, Dr. Hart, Mr. Bontecou and Lord Adlam were discussing the political state in France, and the adventures of the young commander Napoleon, as the others fussed over baby Elinor, to the delight of her parents.

"I think she takes after Anne," Theo was saying, "though of course Anne disagrees."

"Nay, she is very much a Hart," Anne laughed. "Do you not think so? I cannot think of any de Bourghs with hair so light."

The assorted relatives all agreed that the infant took after both parents, to a degree that rendered her perfectly charming in all particulars; "For she has not your crooked nose, Theo," Juliet remarked, "and she has Anne's lovely blue eyes."

"My nose is not crooked," Theo muttered, putting a self-conscious hand to his face.

"She will never have his crooked nose," Helena Bontecou chimed in, "unless she, too, decides at the age of seven to climb a crabapple tree in Sydney Gardens, and finds that she is wholly unequal to the task."

"I am sure I would have been _quite _equal to the task," her brother retorted, "if I had not had an elder sister who chose that moment to try and shake the last crabapples from their branches."

Helena laughed. "We have had some adventures, have we not, Theo _mon cher_? Let us only hope that our children are wiser than we were, or I do not know what shall become of the world!"

"Bastien seems wise enough," Robert said, nodding at his nephew, a boy of two, currently settled on Dr. Hart's knee at the other side of the room.

"Yes, I am sure that is Gabriel's influence," Helena replied cheerfully. "In fact I am rather discouraged that my little boy is so sensible and quiet; I had hoped, when I had children, that I would no longer be obliged to cause all of the trouble in the household. Perhaps the next shall be more exciting. But of course now, Rosebud," she said, turning to her younger sister with a wicked smile, "_you_ are a grown-up married lady, and so I am expecting more little cousins for these two. You know I have always thought it best for children to have plenty of cousins."

Rosamond blushed hotly, but she was laughing. "I have been married for less than a full day, Helena," she exclaimed. "Surely you did not expect me to arrive this morning with a babe in arms!"

"Nay, not _so_ soon; I shall give you a year or two before I begin to make a real fuss. Although Robert is of your same age," she added, casting her glance in that direction, "and so it is only fair of me to expect the same from him. When are _you _to be married, little brother? Is this not the Miss Bennet of whom I have heard so much?"

Mary was mortified; she went redder even than Rosamond, and could not think of a reply. Robert, too, seemed quite discomfited, and glared at his elder sister.

"How French you have become, Helena," Theodore remarked, seeing their discomfort. "I must admit to some envy; you are able to be as impertinent as you like, and everybody excuses you for it because you have been living abroad and therefore cannot help what you say. I can scarcely open my mouth without somebody glaring at me."

"Not undeservedly," Anne put in, smiling at her husband. "Kitty, Mary, when do you return to Hertfordshire?"

"Three days now," Kitty said, heart fluttering at the thought of what would come from her return to Longbourn—that is, Oliver's visit to her father, and all the joy that must follow.

"If you have time," Rosamond said, "I should like for you to come see me before you go."

"Rose is at the Royal Crescent now." Juliet beamed with pride, as though her sister's elevation in the world was her own doing.

Rosamond bit her lip. "Yes," she said, sheepishly, "I suppose I should have mentioned that."

"And she goes to Locksby on Saturday," Juliet added. "Papa has said I may visit in the fall, if it is agreeable to everybody. And perhaps you all may come to stay as well; would not that be lovely?"

"Very lovely," Mary said, "but we should not like to impose."

"Indeed, Julie, it is rather ill-bred of you to begin inviting people to our sister's house, when _she_ has not even seen it yet," Robert said. Juliet's smile dropped, and she looked down at her lap.

"I do not mind," Rosamond said. "Julian and I plan to have a great many visitors; we have been discussing it all morning, and have begun compiling a list. It is already three pages long."

"I hope you do not plan to have all of these guests at once," Theo said severely. "How many bedrooms are in this house? Have you a dining-room that can seat everyone comfortably?"

"Almost everyone; _you_ shall be obliged to dine by yourself in another room, but I daresay nobody will be sorry for it."

Theo laughed at this, and said that he hoped Rosamond's husband was aware that he had married an impudent little beast; but they had not time for more conversation, for at that moment the maid came in, and announced that Robert's hired coach had come.

This was not the first time that Mary, or the Harts for that matter, had been obliged to bid Robert farewell; but the first time, there had been the promise of reunion at Rosamond's wedding. Now there was no such promise, and it was with a heavy heart that Mary watched Robert shrug on his riding-coat, and shake hands with his father and brothers. Rosamond, too, looked very near tears as she embraced her twin, and it suddenly struck Mary that her friend must be feeling, even more than she herself, all the strangeness and nostalgia of a world changing all at once. Julian Adlam laid a gentle hand upon his wife's shoulder as she pulled away from her brother, which she swiftly covered with her own; Mary saw this with a pang that, for some reason, made her feel as if Robert was already gone.

But of course he was not. His other sisters came forward to embrace him, each bidding him a fond farewell; little Sebastien clung devotedly to his legs, and baby Elinor, lifted in Anne's arms to receive a kiss from her uncle, affectionately pulled several fair hairs from his head in a tiny fist. Rubbing his scalp, Robert at last turned to Mary and Kitty.

"I am sorry that I did not have more opportunity to enjoy your company," he said, and though he was ostensibly speaking to both of them, his eyes were upon Mary.

"We are sorry, too," Kitty answered, with a sidelong glance at her sister, "but I hope we shall have many more opportunities in the future."

"I am sure that we shall," Robert said, looking at Kitty for the first time. "I wish you a safe journey, Miss Katherine." He bowed.

"And to you, sir," Kitty replied, curtsying.

Robert turned to Mary. "Goodbye, Miss Bennet," he said, with a rueful little half-smile and a low bow. "I hope we meet again soon."

"Of course," Mary said, faintly, sinking into a belated curtsy. She was very much aware of the eyes of the room upon them.

There was not time for anything further, however, nor was this the place for any intimate farewell. The party proceeded into the vestibule, where Robert's valise was already sitting by the door; Theodore slapped his brother's back heartily, and Dr. Hart put an arm about his youngest son's shoulders. There were a few more kinds words spoken, a conspicuous sniffle from Rosamond, and an assortment of farewells in English and French, as the door was opened and the early afternoon sunshine poured in. The carriage was waiting by the gate, its horses stamping impatiently.

"Goodbye," they all cried, "goodbye," as Robert lifted his valise and made his way down the steps to the road. At the last moment, as he pulled open the door to the carriage, he turned back to wave again. His eyes sought each of them in turn; but it was on Mary that his gaze lingered, and to her that he gave a tiny nod of understanding, and a crooked little smile of promise.

* * *

With Robert gone, Mary would have been content to mope around their lodgings until it came time for them to return to Hertfordshire. But it was not to be: the next day was the day of their visit to Larkhall, and Kitty, ebullient from the moment she woke, would not allow her sister to succumb to gloom.

The drive to Larkhall, under the May afternoon sun, was perfectly agreeable. They crossed the Avon twice, once at Wells Road and once at Bathwick Street. In between, they wound through the city, past Bath Abbey and the Pump Room and Sally Lunn's and all of the other places at which, ordinarily, Kitty would have longed to disembark and spend an hour or two; but now she actually found herself impatient with the city, and eager to be out of it.

Soon enough, they turned onto the London Road, and from there onto St. Saviour's Road. The streets north of the city's heart were quieter, with wider stretches of grass and trees between the buildings. Kitty pressed her face to the window, doing her best to absorb the sights and sounds that would someday be as familiar to her as any in Meryton.

Larkhall was not quite a village, but neither was it entirely part of Bath; it had a broad, verdant green upon which several children ran and played, and a large, elegant stone church at the end of the road. There were a few streets of shops, two or three public houses, and a great number of small, orderly cottages, with well-tended gardens. In truth it did not look so very different from any number of smaller towns that have, over the centuries, sprouted in the vicinity of England's greater cities; but Kitty could not have thought the church any prettier, nor the houses more charming.

The _most _charming house, of course, was the one before which they eventually drew to a halt. Kitty's heart leapt, as Oliver, who had been waiting upon the stone path, hastened forward to open the carriage door and hand the ladies down. Mrs. Bennet was first, and then Mary, and then Kitty, who clutched Oliver's hand tightly even once she stood firmly upon the ground.

"But how lovely!" she cried, beaming at him. Oliver blushed.

"I find it very satisfactory," he said. "I had hoped that you might approve."

It was a small house, as curate's lodgings usually are: on a little hillside, quite close to the church, with an unruly tangle of flowering quince spilling onto the winding path. The house itself was stone, and the large windows were left open, catching the light breeze.

"It's perfectly enchanting," Kitty declared. "Do you not think it perfectly enchanting, Mamma?"

Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips. "I think it quite acceptable, for a curate's house."

"_I_ think it most pleasing," Mary put in, with a scolding glance at her mother. "You have a very fine prospect here, sir." She turned and gestured at the view to the southwest, which looked down into the Avon valley, and encompassed the distant sun-lit crop of rooftops and church spires that was Bath. The curling snake of the river glistened in the near distance. "I imagine you must be able to see the Abbey, on a clear day."

"Not quite so far," Oliver replied, glad at least to have the approval of the sister, in the face of the mother's disdain; "But it is a fair view, and I think myself fortunate indeed to enjoy it."

"It is so much quieter here," Mary added.

"Yes, indeed; it is not at all like being in Bath," Mrs. Bennet remarked, with the implication that to be in Bath would, of course, be far preferable.

"It is wonderfully peaceful," Kitty said quickly, for she had noticed that Oliver's ears were faintly red with embarrassment, and as endearing a sight as it was, she could not bear his discomfort.

"And it is not such a long journey into the city," Oliver said, looking at his prospective mother-in-law. "I find it a very pleasant walk, in fine weather."

Mrs. Bennet sniffed, looking about her: no doubt imagining Lizzie at Pemberley, and Jane at Netherfield, and perhaps even Rosamond at the Royal Crescent, and wondering how Kitty, surrounded by such successes, could have failed to make a similar achievement. But she said nothing, and when their host offered her his arm, she took it without looking at him. Kitty and Mary exchanged a glance as Oliver led the way inside.

It was plainly a bachelor's house—that is, it was tidy, and well-kept, but spare. The sitting room into which they were shown was bright and pleasant, if a little small; there were a few watercolors upon the walls, signed by the various Miss Finches, and a sleepy foxhound curled upon the hearth-rug, who regarded them with one half-shut eye as they entered, before returning to his repose.

"Do you hunt, sir?" Mrs. Bennet asked, the first spark of interest in her voice; for she considered hunting a most worthy pastime for a gentleman. Oliver gave her a small smile, plainly relieved.

"I do, ma'am, though not as often as I should like. My father and brothers and I try to ride out once or twice a year."

"And where do you hunt?"

"My aunt and uncle have a small estate in Weston, which furnishes plenty of opportunity; and every so often, we are fortunate enough to be invited to the home of our friends the Rycrofts, down near Trowbridge. Mr. Rycroft keeps his woods and fields very well-stocked. But I am afraid that Chester here is not quite so well-trained as he ought to be," Oliver added, with a wry smile in the direction of the foxhound.

"He is a very handsome creature," Mrs. Bennet said, "though I am surprised you let him in the house; I have always insisted that Mr. Bennet keep his dogs outside."

"I fear I have a tendency to spoil him," Oliver said. "But he does not cause any trouble, and indeed I enjoy his company. Would you care for some tea, Mrs. Bennet?"

Kitty had been ignoring this exchange in favor of examining her surroundings. She walked carefully from one end of the room to the other, peeking through a doorway that led into the dining-room, and another that led into a small study; she examined the Miss Finches' watercolors, the books stacked upon an end-table (two novels and a dog-eared book of sermons), the half-finished chess game taking place at a small table near the window; she knelt to scratch the dog—Chester—upon his head, and received a grateful eyeroll and thump of the tail for her trouble. Everything in the room spoke of Oliver, and every breath she took was full of him. It made her head spin pleasantly, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

She had been prepared, of course, to approve of everything about the house, outside and in; but she had not prepared for the curious feeling that came upon her as she looked around. It was strange, after being so long separated from Oliver, to suddenly find herself in a place that held traces of him in every object, every forgotten corner—but it was strange in the most beguiling way. And it was not only _his_; closing her eyes, she could picture her own watercolors hanging alongside the Miss Finches', her own books stacked alongside Oliver's on the end-table, her own work-basket at the table by the window. She suddenly felt as if there was nothing she would like more than to spend every day in this room, for the rest of her life, scratching Chester's ears and watching the sun dance across the carpet.

These were the thoughts that occupied her as her mother and Oliver made polite conversation; but she caught Oliver's offer of tea, and immediately came to sit beside him on the settee. "Let me, my love," she said, smiling at him. He blushed at the endearment, and cast a hesitant glance at Mrs. Bennet, but allowed Kitty to take the teapot from him.

"Who is your opponent, sir?" Mary asked, nodding toward the chessboard.

"My brother Rowland; he visits often, and we have an ongoing battle."

"Which you are winning quite handily," Mary noted. To her surprise, Oliver laughed—it was perhaps the first time anybody in the party, besides Kitty, had ever heard him do so.

"In fact," Oliver said, "the most recent moves on my brother's side were made by Theo Hart, who was here only the other day. He and Rowland were at school together, and have always enjoyed something of a rivalry. Theo likes to move Rowland's pieces whenever he calls—usually in a direction that does my brother more harm than good."

"And of course you are quite unable to stop him," Kitty said teasingly.

"Of course," Oliver agreed, looking at her with a grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners (and made her heart flutter agreeably). "Mr. Hart is a gentleman of remarkably strong will, and I could not thwart his purpose except at some risk to my own well-being."

"How fortunate you are, Mr. Finch," Mrs. Bennet broke in, "that your family and friends do not mind coming all the way up to Larkhall to see you."

Oliver's smile did not drop. "In fact I believe they are glad for the opportunity to spend some time away from the clamor of the city."

"_I_ certainly would be glad of such an opportunity," Mary said. "Bath is pleasant enough, but I think it imperative that people enjoy plenty of quiet and greenery, particularly those who spend most of their lives in urban spaces."

"Unfortunately, my dear, not everybody can afford a country-house _and _a town-house," Mrs. Bennet sighed. "Your elder sisters are able to enjoy such good fortune, of course, and Lady Adlam, and many other people of our intimate acquaintance; but _some_ people are obliged to choose one or the other as they have not the money for both." She gave Mr. Finch a pointed stare.

"For example," Kitty said, as cheerfully as she could manage in the face of her rising temper, "_we_ have not the money for both; nor have the Lucases, nor the Phillipses or the Gardiners, nor the Carpenters, nor the Harts, nor many other families that we count among our friends. In fact, Mamma," she went on, with a sweet smile, "it seems that such good fortune is more the exception than the norm in our circle. And so you must agree that Larkhall is _very _convenient, for it is near enough to Bath to promote much enjoyment of the city, and yet far enough to boast the intimacy of a country village. Not many places are so happily situated. In fact I daresay there is no other place I should like to live."

She finished with a defiantly raised chin, as though daring her mother to comment; and Mrs. Bennet, who could really make no response, pursed her lips and looked down at her teacup.

"Would anyone care for cake?" Kitty added, demurely cutting a slice and offering it to Mary, who was watching her with startled admiration.

"Mrs. Bennet," Oliver said, "I was fortunate enough to hear a little about your new grandsons, when I met the Miss Bennets at Hart House the other day; but I should love to hear more. How old are they, now?"

He could not have hit upon any subject more calculated to soften Mrs. Bennet's heart; there are few things a grandmother enjoys more than discussing her grandchildren, and the Bingley twins, being not only the most recent additions to the family but also the ones within the easiest distance, were wholly cherished by their doting grandmother. Mrs. Bennet, forgetting momentarily her distaste for Mr. Finch's modest situation, warmed immediately to her subject: she described the boys' appearances and temperaments, exclaimed over how quickly they were growing, and assured Mr. Finch that he could search the entire kingdom and never find two cleverer, handsomer, sweeter-tempered babes than little Edward and little Charles.

Oliver, who as yet had no nieces or nephews of his own but had, of late, heard plenty of this sort of talk from his friends the Harts, was well-versed in the art of secondhand admiration. He nodded and agreed where it was wanted, and offered his wholehearted astonishment at the antics and accomplishments of the infants in question. Kitty, watching him fondly, was surprised to see little trace of his usual awkwardness; in fact, she thought, it was as though her Oliver was a different person within his own walls. Even Mrs. Bennet was pleased by his attention, and found the conversation more stimulating than any she had ever had with the gentleman—though of course, as usual, she was doing most of the talking, with Mary and Kitty interjecting here and there.

This line of discussion carried them for nearly three-quarters of an hour, before at last Mrs. Bennet's well of praises ran dry and she was obliged to gulp her cold tea in order to wet her throat.

They took a turn about the garden before they dined, for the weather was lovely enough that it should have been a shame to stay indoors _all_ the afternoon. There was a small, pleasant green behind the house, bordered by a low stone wall, over which reached blossoming trees and shrubs. Kitty found the whole effect very pleasing, and said as much to her betrothed.

"I am glad you like it," Oliver said, turning to her. Mary had thoughtfully claimed her mother's company, and walked ahead several feet on the pretense of admiring a particular shrubbery. "Indeed, Kitty, I am—I am very glad that you find the house so agreeable. I confess I have been rather worried that it would not meet with your approval."

"Whyever shouldn't it?" Kitty asked warmly, taking his hands in her own. "It is yours, and it is soon to be _ours_. I regret to inform you that you have worried over nothing; but I am very gratified at your concern."

Oliver smiled down at her. "Then I shall make a concerted effort to worry a great deal more, if it gives you pleasure."

Kitty laughed. "Nay, I should not have you put yourself to any trouble! There are a great many other things you do which give me pleasure, half of which you are not even aware of, so you need not fear on that score. But I do like the house, Oliver, and the garden, and the village, and everything else that is soon to be ours together. I am sure I shall even like the church—and if I do not, I shall lie and say that I do."

"And I shall pretend not to know you are lying," Oliver teased, "and in this way we shall be very happy together for the rest of our days."

Kitty gave a happy sigh and, with a glance at her mother and sister to make sure that they were otherwise engaged, dared to lean forward and rest her head on his shoulder. "I think we _shall_ be happy, you know," she said softly. "I know that is the sort of thing everybody says when a couple marries and sets up house together, but I really think that we have a much better chance of it than many others."

Oliver's quiet laugh was a low rumble in her ears, and she closed her eyes for a moment.

"Mr. Finch!" Mrs. Bennet called, and the spell was broken. Kitty pulled away from her betrothed, who straightened his waistcoat self-consciously. "Mr. Finch, is that the rectory?"

She was pointing over the wall to the west. Oliver hurried over to follow her gaze.

"Yes," he said, "that is Dr. Blackburn's home."

The view was rather hampered by the grove of Wych elms that stood between the curate's cottage and the rectory; but above the treetops rose a tall, handsome building of white Bath-stone, a good deal larger than Mr. Finch's house, with tall windows and at least three chimneys. The imposing figure of St. Saviour's rose beside it, set closer to the road.

"It is a very fine house," Mrs. Bennet declared, wide-eyed. "Particularly for a rectory; indeed it is much larger than the vicarage at Meryton, and I am sure it is larger than Hunsford Parsonage. Lizzie said Hunsford Parsonage was quite small."

Nobody in the party had ever been to Hunsford Parsonage, and so there was no reply that could be made; but Mrs. Bennet did not allow this to deter her. "Is it very fine inside, Mr. Finch?"

"It is a lovely home," Oliver said carefully. "Dr. Blackburn has made many improvements to it."

"It must be an excellent living."

"I understand it is very comfortable."

Mrs. Bennet turned to her prospective son-in-law, her eyes gleaming. "Dr. Blackburn is an older gentleman, is he not?"

"He is."

"And is he married? Has he any children?"

"He was married, but Mrs. Blackburn passed away several years ago. There is a son, who is married now; I believe he lives in Bristol."

"Bristol! But that is so far. I imagine Dr. Blackburn should like to be closer to him."

"I imagine he should," Oliver replied diplomatically. "In fact, I think it likely he will move to Bristol himself after his retirement."

"And I imagine that his retirement will not be long in coming," Mrs. Bennet pressed, "especially as he is so old now. And of course _you_, as his curate, shall be the natural choice for his successor. And from there you might even succeed to Bath Abbey, someday."

Mr. Finch could not speak to this, but it did not matter, for Mrs. Bennet had heard everything she wanted to hear. She regarded her prospective son-in-law with greater interest than she had before, and as they went into the house to dine, she no longer seemed to be looking at a small, tidy curate's cottage, but at an elegant, well-appointed rectory.

* * *

Their last call, before leaving Bath, was to the new Lady Adlam. This they made in the company of Anne Hart and Miss Juliet, who met them at Carlton Road.

"It is rather strange," Mrs. Hart remarked, as the three ladies walked along St. James's Parade, "to be visiting Rose at the Royal Crescent, considering that I used to sneak away from the Royal Crescent in order to see her."

"As I have heard it," Kitty teased, "your purpose in sneaking away from the Royal Crescent was not so much to see Rose, as to see her elder brother."

Anne smiled serenely, and did not answer, though a telling blush upon her cheeks, and a giggle from Juliet, proved answer enough.

The Adlams' lodgings were situated near the western end of the Crescent. The Miss Bennets, who had not had much occasion to spend time in this part of the city, were suitably impressed by the broad green lawn before the houses, the walking park beyond, and the excellent view down toward the river; but they were too eager to see their friend to spend much time admiring the exterior, and were glad when they were admitted to the house without pause.

It was strange indeed for Mary and Kitty, having grown so accustomed to seeing their friend in the familiar, homey drawing-room at Hart House, to find her amidst the finery of a Royal Crescent address. The house, though not so large as a country manor, was in its decoration as elegant as any they'd seen; portraits of Adlams past and present adorned the walls, surrounded by fine paintings that spoke to somebody's expensive taste. Silent, efficient maids and footmen passed here and there unobtrusively, likely in the midst of preparing the household for its departure. The sitting-room into which the callers were shown was, Juliet confided in hushed tones, one of four, but a particular favorite of Rosamond's; it offered a view down onto the street, and boasted several elegant couches and mahogany chairs, quite unlike anything on which they had sat at Hart House.

They found the viscountess at her pianoforte when they entered, but she rose mid-song to greet them effusively.

"I am so happy to see you!" she exclaimed, embracing each of the young ladies in turn. _She_, at least, had not changed, at least not outwardly; she wore a simple muslin gown, and only the ring on her right hand—a band of gold fitted with glittering sapphires—hinted at any change in her situation. But her cheeks were flushed, and reddened further as Mary and Kitty cast admiring glances about the salon.

"What a lovely room!" Kitty exclaimed. "It reminds me very much of Pemberley, the way the light comes in through the windows. Do you not think so, Mary?"

"I must confess myself envious of your instrument," Mary said, running an admiring hand along the keys of the pianoforte. "I think it remarkably fine."

"It was Julian's wedding gift to me," Rose replied softly, watching them.

"You were playing beautifully as we came in," Anne said. "I am sorry to interrupt your practice."

At this, Rosamond's face broke into a smile. "You need not worry; I am not so fastidious as Miss Bennet," she teased, leading them to sit before the grand marble fireplace. "It is nothing to _me_ if my practice is interrupted, so long as the interruption is a pleasant one." She lifted a small silver bell from the end-table and, with some hesitation, rang it.

"Then we shall take care to make it very pleasant," Anne answered, as a servant hurried in to answer his lady's summons. Rosamond requested tea and cakes, and the servant disappeared again.

"Where are the Miss Adlams?" Juliet asked, looking about the room as though her sisters-in-law might be concealed within.

"Still abed; they are very fashionable, you know, and keep very fashionable hours."

"And Lord Adlam?"

Rosamond could not keep the smile from her face, even at this casual mention of her husband. "Julian is up in his study, handling some final business before we leave for Locksby. He may join us in a little while; I told him we may have visitors today. He is very eager to secure your approval," she added, meeting each of their eyes in turn, "for I have told him how important you all are to me."

"Any gentleman who makes you smile so has my approval," Anne pronounced, "even more so in his Lordship's case case—for he told me the other day that he thinks Elinor the sweetest child in the world, and I cannot disapprove of a man with such excellent judgment."

"How could you have doubted his judgment, when he married _me_?" Rose teased.

"In fact that was what caused us to question it in the first place," Juliet broke in, and they all laughed.

"Do you find it strange, being married?" Anne asked.

Rosamond frowned thoughtfully. "It is rather strange, I suppose," she answered, after a moment. "Not being with Julian; _that_ is never strange, of course. But every morning I wake up and wonder, for a moment, where I am. And of course it is very different, managing one's own house."

"But you have managed our house ever since Helena married," Juliet said.

"I know, Julie, but that is—well—that is a rather smaller household." There was a light blush on Rosamond's face. "There is only Cook and Sarah. But here there are _so_ many servants, and they would all prefer to do everything for me rather than allowing me to do anything for myself. My maid looked at me quite askance this morning when I insisted upon pinning my own hair." She bit her lip. "Forgive me; I suppose I should not talk so."

"Nay, of course you should," Anne said lightly. "If you cannot talk so to your sisters, then with whom can you ever be free? But it amuses me, Rose, to hear you complain of having too many servants; when I married Theo, I had had servants all my life, and suddenly I had only a cook and a maid, and had no idea how to pin my own hair."

"And now you run your home with the greatest of ease," Rose replied, "and live a life of ease and tranquility."

Anne smiled wryly. "Indeed. But you see, do you not, that if I may make such an adjustment, it is hardly out of the question that _you_ may someday learn manage your household very adeptly."

Rosamond bit her lip again, and looked a little comforted by this. But after a moment she shook herself lightly, and turned to Mary and Kitty.

"This cannot be interesting to you," she apologized. "And I suppose this is the last time we shall see each other before we all leave Bath, so we ought to make our conversation as scintillating as possible. What adventures shall you have once you return to Hertfordshire?—I imagine you will be very glad to see your little nephews again."

"Yes," Mary said, "very glad indeed."

"And are you to have any visitors this summer, or go anywhere interesting?"

Kitty's heart beat a little faster, and she bit her own lip. She had not quite considered how she would tell Rosamond her news; she knew her friend would be most shocked by the announcement. But she was eager to tell as many people as she could—she reveled in the luxury of being able to share her joy—and so she squeezed Mary's hand very tightly as she said, "In fact, we are only to have _one_ visitor that we know of; but his arrival shall soon be followed by a most interesting journey."

Rosamond laughed. "You speak in riddles, Kitty," she said, "and I should never have expected it of you. Pray, who is this mysterious visitor, and why should his coming force you from your home?"

"He is not so mysterious," Kitty said, enjoying the attention, and the opportunity to hold an agreeable secret over the heads of the others (she may be forgiven for this, for her last secret, after all, had not been so agreeable). "You all know him very well: he is Mr. Oliver Finch."

"Mr. Finch!" Anne exclaimed, widening her eyes.

"And is Oliver Finch's company so odious to you that you must flee Longbourn to escape it?" Rosamond asked.

"_Quite_ the opposite," Kitty said with satisfaction. "His company is not odious to me at all; in fact I cherish it. Mr. Finch—Oliver—is coming to Longbourn to ask Papa for my hand, and after Papa agrees (as he must), then Oliver and I shall return to Larkhall as husband and wife. So you see: a visitor, followed by a journey."

There was a brief moment of silence as they all stared at her, during which her smile wavered a little; but Mary reached down onto the settee between them and clasped her hand tightly.

Then: "Why, Kitty!" Juliet cried, surging forward to throw her arms about her friend so forcefully that Kitty nearly lost her seat.

The others were not quite so demonstrative, but embraced her, with particular fondness in Rosamond's case. "How coy you've been!" her friend exclaimed, laughing. "I swear I thought it would never happen after all."

"After all?" Kitty asked, surprised. "Then you expected it?"

"_We_ did," Juliet said, gesturing proudly to herself and Anne. "We have been discussing it for some time now. We are usually right about these things, too, though we never know _when_ they shall happen."

Rosamond afforded her sisters a fond sigh and shake of the head. "I knew only of Oliver's feelings; he used to read to me from your letters, you know—only little bits, interesting things you'd written, or news about your family—and with each letter he grew a little more animated, and his feelings a little plainer."

This news gave Kitty a little warm glow in her breast, and she could not keep the smile from her face.

"But now tell us about the wedding," Juliet pressed. "Will you be married from Longbourn or Bath? Will all your sisters come? Who shall be your bridesmaids?"

Kitty had not in fact considered such things quite yet—her thoughts had been more upon what would follow the wedding than the wedding itself—and she was quite happy to sit and work through the particulars with her sister and her friends.

* * *

That night they dined with the Finches and the Fitzwilliams at the big house on St. Stephen's Road. Oliver had informed his family of his happy news, and Kitty was delighted when the four Miss Finches and Mrs. Fitzwilliam embraced her quite as another sister. She was even more delighted to see Mrs. Finch talking enthusiastically to Mrs. Bennet of her son's excellent prospects, and Mrs. Bennet responding more warmly than she had fully expected.

The party was a merry one, though Kitty could have wished that she and Oliver had more time to spend alone together; there was only a brief moment, as they went in to supper, where she was able to draw close to his side, and then another brief moment as they bid farewell in the gathering dusk. But such complaints are common among young couples about to be wed, and Kitty comforted herself with the thought that they would have plenty of time alone together before very long. Her heartbeat quickened excitedly at this.

The next morning was the day of their departure, and the road to Longbourn had never seemed so long. Their time in Bath had seemed to go by very quickly, with a great many things happening; but now there was nothing ahead of them but two days upon the road, which seemed to Kitty an unforgivable delay.

"Why did we decide to live so far from Bath?" she complained, as they arrived at the inn near Oxford where they would spend the night.

"Hertfordshire is where we are from," Mrs. Bennet replied, "and anyway, my dear, when your father and I set up house together, it never occurred to us to settle near Bath; nobody went to Bath in those days."

Kitty sighed, but even her impatience could not fully extinguish her glad spirits.

They arrived at Longbourn the next evening—later than they would have liked, for their horse threw a shoe upon the road, which caused some delay. This Kitty took quite personally, for she had never before been in a carriage when the horse threw a shoe, and it was quite ill-mannered of this particular horse to do so _now_, when she was so anxious to be home. But it could not be helped, and they drew up before Longbourn just before supper-time, to find Mr. Bennet waiting at the door.

His face betrayed some relief upon beholding them, though he denied, at their questioning, that he had been truly concerned at the delay; "I feared only that there had been redcoats in Bath this time," he said, "and that you were bringing me news of another exciting elopement."

"Oh, Mr. Bennet, how can you talk so!" Mrs. Bennet shrieked, clutching her chest. "You know the girls would never do such a thing; not _now_, anyway."

Mary rolled her eyes, and linked her arm with Kitty's as they went into the house. "Papa will be very pleased with your choice," she said in her sister's ear.

Kitty turned to her, beaming. "Do you think so, Mary?"

"Of course; for Mr. Finch is a man of excellent character and great good sense, who will treat you very well, and everybody can tell that you love each other. If Papa disapproves, then I give you leave to run away with Mr. Finch. I don't mind if you spoil my prospects, and I am the only one left with prospects to spoil."

Kitty laughed. "I could not spoil your prospects anyway, Mary, for you have only one that really matters, and I daresay nothing could sway his good opinion. I saw the way he smiled at you when he left Hart House."

Mary flushed.

"Anyway," Kitty went on, leaning her head against her sister's as they walked, "Oliver and I would not have much running to do; for he is a clergyman, and I am sure he could marry us as soon as ever he pleased. Oh!" she gasped. "Why did I not simply have him marry us while we were in Bath?"

"Because if you had," Mary intoned, "then you would not have had the satisfaction of forcing me to be a bridesmaid, nor would you have been able to see the look on Maria Lucas's face when she beheld your husband, who, I may admit, though I truly care little for such things, is of unusually prepossessing appearance."

"He _is_ handsome, isn't he?" Kitty sighed happily, and would have said more, but just then Mrs. Bennet called them from the dining-room, and they were obliged to hurry in and take their places at table.

Kitty would have liked to be the one to announce her engagement to her father, but instead her mother made short work of it almost as soon as they had sat down. "Mr. Bennet," she declared, beaming at her husband, "our daughter Kitty has accepted a proposal."

Mr. Bennet, who had had a mouthful of soup, gave a startled cough and set down his spoon. "I beg your pardon, my dear?" he said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

"Did you not hear me, Mr. Bennet? Kitty has accepted a proposal, and is to be married. Is not this wonderful news? Now we have only to find a husband for Mary!"

Mary frowned into her soup.

"Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Bennet said, "I believe it was my instruction, when you first left for Bath last August, that no marriages should be arranged without my having met the gentleman in question. And yet I see no gentleman at this table. How, then, can a marriage have been arranged?"

"He could not ride with us, Papa, though he wished to," Kitty put in hastily, fearing that her mother was going about the matter all the wrong way. "He is curate at a parish outside Bath, and today is Sunday, so he was needed by his rector. But he will arrive tomorrow—or the day after, at the latest."

Mr. Bennet stared at her. "A curate?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Kitty, my dear," Mr. Bennet said carefully, "you are aware that a curate is a type of clergyman, and not a type of soldier?"

"Yes, Papa," Kitty replied, who would have been exasperated if not for her nerves.

"It is perhaps not the most attractive profession," Mrs. Bennet said, with the air of one admitting to a crucial flaw. "But from what we understand, the living is a good one, and he has very good prospects. Certainly Kitty shall never have a great fortune or a title, but she will at least be comfortable—and married."

Mr. Bennet was still staring at Kitty.

"He is a very sensible gentleman, Papa," Mary interjected. "He is intelligent and thoughtful, and very well liked."

Mrs. Bennet gave a little snort, as though doubting the truth of this, but her husband was paying her no heed. "_You_ like him, Mary?" he said in amazement, turning to his elder daughter.

"I do; I like him very much."

Mr. Bennet shook his head. "I believe this must be some strange dream, or else there is some ill news about to be given: the gentleman is several thousand pounds in debt, perhaps, or is older than I am and has four grown children, or has been recently involved in some scandal and needs a respectable wife to regain his standing."

"None of those, Papa," Kitty assured him, her voice trembling a little. "He is a very good sort of gentleman, and I am sure you shall like him very much."

Her father stared at her a moment longer, then shook his head again. "Well," he said, "I shall look forward to meeting this mysterious gentleman on the morrow, or whenever he may choose to appear; but until then I am afraid I shall be subject to all kinds of wild imaginings. In fact I rather wish you had left it a surprise, so I would not have to spend all this time picturing him. By the by, child, what is the man's name?"  
"Finch," Kitty said, "Oliver Finch."

"Finch," Mr. Bennet repeated thoughtfully. "Kitty Finch. Does that sound well? I can never tell with names."

"It sounds well enough," Mrs. Bennet answered charitably.

"It sounds _very_ well," Mary said, and Kitty gave her a weak grin.

"Kitty Finch," Mr. Bennet said again. "Kitty and Oliver Finch. Well, we shall see."

* * *

Oliver Finch did indeed arrive on the morrow, having left Bath the day after the Bennets; in fact he was at Longbourn well before the family was to dine, and therefore was admitted to Mr. Bennet's study almost immediately upon his arrival—after, of course, receiving an embrace from the younger Miss Bennet.

"How glad I am to see you," she whispered into his riding-coat, while they were alone in the hall. He gave a little laugh.

"It is only two days since we parted—less, even."

"Yes, but it feels much longer," she said. "Does it not feel longer to you? It is as though you have ruined my sense of time, and every moment I am away from you is ten times longer than it ought to be."

"You ought to write novels, my dear," he said softly, smiling down at her.

"I would write excellent novels," she agreed.

At that moment there were footsteps on the other side of the study door, and the couple separated quickly. Mr. Bennet opened the door and regarded Oliver with no small amount of curiosity.

"Well," he said, "you must be the fabled suitor. Come in."

With that, he turned and went back into the study. Oliver cast Kitty a worried glance as he followed, and Kitty gave him her most encouraging smile.

"It is all very exciting, is it not?" Mrs. Bennet whispered, when Kitty came to join her mother and sister in the sitting-room. "I admit I was not particularly keen on the idea when first it was suggested to me, my love, but now I begin to think you do quite well for yourself. The curate's cottage is hardly Pemberley, of course, but I quite liked the look of that rectory."

"Yes," Kitty agreed distantly, trying in vain to hear any sound from the study. She had taken up an old bonnet for which she had very great plans, but could not bring herself to work at all, and it lay untouched in her lap. Mrs. Bennet continued undeterred.

"Now we need only find you a husband, Mary, and in fact I think Kitty's marriage may be the best thing for you. I daresay you are welcome to spend a Season in Town with one of your sisters, or Lady Adlam if she should ask you, but I don't think we ought to expect much joy from _that_; those sorts of gentlemen are looking for pretty, spirited girls, and I am afraid you would only be disappointed. No, Mary, I think one of Mr. Finch's brothers might do very well for you. The middle one is a soldier, you know, and very dashing _I_ think him, for they are a well-looking family. And the eldest one is a lawyer, which is a very respectable trade."

"I am afraid I have no interest in Mr. Finch's brothers," Mary said stiffly, not looking up from her book. Her mother gave a great sigh, shaking her head at her needlework.

"Then you shall have to develop an interest in them, my dear, or I do not know what we shall do with you. Are you determined to die a spinster, dependent upon your father and me while we live and living off your sisters' charity when we are dead?"

"Papa can only approve of Mr. Finch," Mary said, ignoring her mother in favor of setting her book down and taking Kitty's hand in her own. "Do not fret, Katherine."

Kitty, whose head had been turned toward the door in anticipation of some news, jumped a little and looked at her sister, squeezing her hand gratefully. "That is what you said last night," she answered, "but I confess I found it rather easier to believe then."

"You are too anxious," Mary counseled. "Mr. Finch is what any father should want for his daughter."

"Indeed, for he is to have a very fine living," Mrs. Bennet added, "and once his parents are dead, I understand he shall have _quite _a decent inheritance, even if he shall have to split it with all his brothers and sisters. Mrs. Carpenter was most encouraging upon that score."

"Mamma!" her daughters exclaimed, turning to her aghast.

"I do not why you should look at me so!" Mrs. Bennet sniffed. "_Somebody_ must consider these things, you know, or else all marriages would be made upon romance and vanity, and nobody would ever give a thought to practical matters!"

There was no time for a reply to be made, for at that moment Oliver appeared in the doorway with his hat in his hand. He bowed to the three ladies.

"Miss Katherine," he said, "your father wishes to speak to you."

The words were unnecessary, for Kitty was already upon her feet and hurrying towad the door. Oliver did not look heartbroken, which she took as a positive indicator. She felt a little guilty about leaving him with her mother, who was regarding her prospective son-in-law with a distinctly proprietary gleam; but she hoped that Mary would be able to curb at least the most inappropriate queries and lines of discussion, and turned back to beam at her Oliver as he took the seat Mrs. Bennet offered him. He caught her look, and returned a smile of his own.

"Come along, Kitty," Mr. Bennet called from the study. She hastened across the sun-dappled hall and into the study, shutting the door behind her. Mr. Bennet was standing before the window, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out into the spring afternoon. Kitty quietly took a seat in one of the well-worn armchairs, her stomach churning with nerves.

It was a long moment before her father spoke.

"It has never been my habit to concern myself overmuch with the marriages of my children," he said, still gazing out the window. "Your mother seems particulary well-suited to that task, and I always thought it most convenient to leave such worries to her. I never had any doubt that Jane and Lizzie would make fine matches, despite their low income, for they are both sensible, good-natured girls, with unusual beauty between them."

"Papa—" Kitty broke in, uncertain of where this was going, but her father turned to look at her.

"Do not interrupt, Katherine; I know the point you wish me to reach, and I promise you I shall arrive there in due time. But for now I must have your indulgence. You and I have never spoken much together, child, and I believe now is as good a time as any to have a good talk."

Kitty bit her lip, but nodded. Her father's words were doing nothing to curb her anxiety.

"As to Mary," Mr. Bennet went on as though he had not been interrupted, turning to gaze out the window again, "I have always thought it likely that she would remain at Longbourn, caring for your mother and me in our dotage, until we ultimately expired and she went to live with one of your sisters. I shall not mind if that proves not to be the case, but I also shall not consider a spinster daughter to be a disappointment, however your mother may weep and moan.

"But you and Lydia were always more difficult for me to make out. You are both young, still, and since your infancy you have both been given to noise and foolishness—quite a contrast to your elder sisters, and quite irritating to my own habits and temper. I persuaded myself that you both would grow out of your folly if left alone, and I confess that I took very few pains to know or understand you better. I allowed your mother to take charge of your upbringing, and perhaps she encouraged, or at least indulged, some wildness in each of you. At any rate I trusted that your mother would prevent you from making any serious mistakes, and that you would both marry well enough for girls of your standing. And so I washed my hands of both of you. That was careless of me—I have not been a very good father to you, or to Lydia."

"Papa," Kitty said, softly, though she was not sure what else to say. Her father came and sat in the chair across from her own.

"Do not try to comfort me, Kitty. Lydia's elopement was my own fault as much as anyone else's; I ought to have known my own child well enough to know that fifteen was too young to go away from home unsupervised, in the company of the sort of people who would only encourage her worst impulses. I had never had very high hopes of Lydia's marriage, or of yours, but I certainly never expected anything so ruinous as George Wickham."

Kitty looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.

"After Lydia's marriage," Mr. Bennet continued, "I made myself a promise that you and Mary should not fall into a similar trap, and that I should take more care to inspect your suitors. But I still did not expect a great deal for you. Your elder sisters' marriages may have done some good for your prospects, but the world will always value the bad more than the good, and you are still the sister of a young lady who lived unwed with a lover, and was only forced into marriage after everybody else had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense.

"And so I thought we should be lucky if _you_, my child, were to marry some priggish dullard, who would treat you well enough, and give you a house of your own and an income on which to keep it, if not much tenderness or comfort. Such a man would at least be preferable to another fashionable scoundrel with elopement in his sights."

Kitty swallowed hard, thinking of Alexander Price. Her father did not know how close she had come to such a fate, and she was glad for his ignorance; his opinion of her seemed already low enough. "And that is what you think Mr. Finch, Papa?" she asked quietly. "A dullard with fair prospects?"

Her father regarded her for a long moment, sitting back in his chair. "No," he said at last.

Kitty's head snapped up. "No?" she repeated.

"No," he said again. "And I confess it gives me no small amount of confusion. I think your Mr. Finch a man of good sense and good character, and what's more, my dear, he seems quite in love with you."

"He does love me," Kitty agreed, at last feeling a small smile upon her lips. "And I love him."

"I believe you," Mr. Bennet affirmed. "That is what confuses me, my dear. I had little hope that there should ever be any great love between yourself and your husband, whoever he might be; I had always expected your marriage to be one of convenience. And I see now that I have done you a grave disservice. Despite recent evidence to the contrary, I have persisted in thinking of you as Kitty-at-sixteen, led astray by her younger sister, distracted by every handsome soldier who passes by. I have been wholly blind to Kitty-at-eighteen, who is quite a different creature altogether."

"A better creature, I hope," Kitty said, feeling a warm rush of fondness for her father. Mr. Bennet smiled.

"Indeed: more sensible, and less careless, and capable of loving a man who carries the stamp of integrity rather than gallantry. I am proud of you, my girl; and I am heartily sorry that I have thought so little of you, for it was an insult that you did not deserve. I ought to have remembered that Lydia's mistake was not only a lesson for _me_, but for all of us. Your choice is a fine one, and I commend you for it."

"Then," Kitty pressed, her excitement rising, "Oliver and I may be married?"

"Of course you may, child—you could not have had any doubt, in presenting to me your Mr. Finch, so serious and thoughtful as he is. I daresay you could not have found a gentleman more suited to gain a father's approval if you had molded him yourself from the raw material." He hesitated, and then added more softly, "I only wish that I might have had more time to know my daughter, before she married and went away forever."

Kitty rose from her chair, and knelt at her father's side. "I may be marrying," she said, gently, "but I am not going away forever, Papa; there is still time for us to know each other."

He took her hands in his own. "Mr. and Mrs. Finch shall always be welcome at Longbourn," he told her. "But now, my dear, I cannot understand why you waste your time in here with your old papa, when your betrothed is no doubt in some desperate need of rescue from your fond mother."

Kitty giggled, and threw her arms about his neck, knocking his spectacles askew and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, Papa," she whispered in his ear, and only a second later she was gone, the study door still creaking on its hinges behind her.

* * *

The wedding of Katherine Bennet to Oliver Finch took place on a morning in early June, at the old parish church in which Kitty had spent so many dull Sundays, and in which two of her three married sisters had been wed, and her parents before them. It was very well-attended, the Bennets being a popular family in the neighborhood; even the Darcys made their way from Pemberley, for Mrs. Darcy could not allow her younger sister to marry without first approving of the gentleman. (She found him quite satisfactory.) The Finches came from Bath for the occasion, the four sisters charming in their summer-dresses, though of course nobody was as charming as the bride herself: Mrs. Bennet, for all her faults, had been planning her daughters' weddings for most of their lives, and indeed knew the best warehouses, and the best styles. Kitty, who had always been pretty, felt for the first time in her life like a true beauty—a perfect match, she thought happily, for her unusually prepossessing husband.

"How lucky she is!" Maria Lucas sighed enviously in Mary's ear. "I cannot imagine the other gentleman was _nearly _so tall and handsome."

"He certainly was not," Mary affirmed, smiling in spite of herself.

The ceremony was as brief as it ought to be, and the bride and groom spent it sneaking glances at each other and smiling when they were not required to make any verbal contributions. (Kitty smiled so broadly, and so much, that her cheeks quite ached by the end of it.) Then came the party at Netherfield, during which everybody danced and feasted and enjoyed themselves very much—even Mr. Bingley's sisters, who declared themselves perfectly charmed with the quaintness of a country wedding, though the purse of their lips and the turning-up of their noses rather belied their words.

"I wonder how many reels we shall be obliged to dance this evening," Miss Bingley remarked at one point, but nobody answered her.

Even Mary danced, once with Mr. Bingley and once with Mr. Finch, though she refused any further dances; she did not like dancing with anybody besides Robert, because everybody else danced so much more fluently than she did. She was quite content to sit and watch her newly-wed sister be as happy as she had ever been, though she did not resist the temptation to exhibit upon the pianoforte, when Mr. Bingley made the invitation.

Kitty was, for the first time in her life, quite indifferent to the merriment of the ball all around her. The only thing she cared for was the warmth of her hand in Oliver's when they danced and the smile that had not left his face since he had seen her in the church. Even when they were separated by other dancers or well-wishers, she was quite aware of his presence in the crowd, and only wanted to be by his side again. Whatever she had felt for Mr. Price, she knew, was definitively gone, and would not return; whatever she had thought before, she knew that she had never been in love until now. She said as much to Mary, while Oliver danced with Lizzie.

"I think you are right," Mary answered thoughtfully. "I have always thought that love—real love—was hard-won, as opposed to infatuation, which can be inspired by the glance of a moment. People are always changing, after all, and in order to love someone, you must understand that they will not always be the same, and wish to know them forever in spite of that fact."

"That is how I feel," Kitty said, glad that her sister understood her so well. "I know Oliver _now_, and I want more than anything to know him in a year, and in ten years, and in twenty years, and so on, however much he should change. I want to be with him always."

"I should hope so," Mary said wryly, "for you have just made a promise to that effect."

"Yes," Kitty giggled, "I know I have; oh, Mary, I know you shall be as happy as I am someday!" And she threw her arms about her sister.

It had been decided that Mr. and Mrs. Finch would remain a fortnight at Longbourn before returning to Bath, where the Finches would give another celebration for all of their Bath friends. Lord and Lady Adlam, already ensconced at Locksby Hall, had not been able to come to the wedding (though the couple had sorely desired their presence), but they would return to Bath for the Finches' ball. In the meantime, the viscountess had sent her friend a very pretty gift, which was delivered a few days after the ceremony had taken place, to shrieks of delight from its recipient: a dozen newly-published novels directly from London, which would not be seen in bookstores outside the city for some months yet, and, in a separate case, a breathtaking and undoubtedly expensive silver tea-service, decorated with a delicate floral pattern.

"You see," Kitty said teasingly to her sister, "_this_ is why you ought to marry Robert, Mary my dear, if you can think of no other reason; if this is what she sends to Mrs. Finch, imagine only the presents Lady Adlam would make to her own sister-in-law!"

Mary, thinking of the pianoforte Robert had mentioned, blushed, and pointed out a particularly interesting title among Kitty's new library in order to change the subject.

With the Darcys at Netherfield, their time in Hertfordshire was taken up with many family parties, and a great many assemblies both public and private; everybody was eager to make the acquaintance of this Mr. Finch of Bath, particularly the young ladies among whom Kitty had grown up, who were in some disbelief at her having married a such a gentleman (both so handsome, and so quiet). In fact, it was far too rare for Kitty's taste, and she knew for her husband's as well, that they found themselves truly alone—always there seemed to be some caller who wished to pay his compliments, or some young lady who wished to stare at Mr. Finch, and beg her own mamma to take her to Bath to find a husband.

It was something of a relief, then, to wake one morning and find the day of their departure upon them. Kitty packed her things with great care. It was strange, at the end, to see her wardrobe and chest-of-drawers both empty, and her books gone from their shelves; it was strange, and a little sad, to look about the little room in which she had slept for her entire life, and realize that she would no longer open her eyes each morning to see the faded yellow flowers upon the wallpaper, or look out the window onto the garden in which she had spent so many hours walking and laughing with her sisters. She could faintly hear Mary practicing upon the pianoforte in the breakfast-room, and the soft murmur of voices in the halls and rooms below, and these familiar sounds brought an unexpected lump to her throat.

"My dear?"

Kitty turned, and Oliver was in the doorway, watching her with some concern. She smiled at him, and was surprised to feel tears in her eyes.

"Here," he said, taking a step forward and opening his arms, and she went into them without protest, laying her head upon his shoulder as had become her habit.

"It is only very strange," she said, hoping to reassure him. "I am happy—I promise I am happy—it is only—Longbourn has always been home, and now it is not. I hadn't realized how much I should miss it."

His arms encircled her waist. "I understand. But we shall make a new home together."

Kitty took a breath, and shut her eyes, picturing the little cottage in Larkhall, with its sunny sitting-room and its curling stone path and the foxhound upon its hearth. For a moment, Longbourn seemed a million miles away.

"And of course," Oliver was saying, "we shall visit Longbourn whenever you like, and stay for as long as you like. I want you to be happy, Kitty—that is all I want."

Kitty at last pulled out of his arms, though she kept hold of his hands, and smiled up at him. "I know," she said. "I would not have married you, otherwise."

He returned her smile, and leaned down to kiss her gently.

"And I want _you_ to be happy," Kitty continued, a little breathlessly, when the kiss had ended. "And I imagine you should be happy if we were to be upon the road just now, and so I shall send for the servant, and have my things taken down to the coach. It is a long road to Bath, you know, and so we ought to be going as swiftly as possible. I do not know why you delay us so."

Oliver laughed, and apologized with another kiss, which delayed them still further, but they did not mind.

It was not much longer that they stood upon the drive before the house, bidding farewell to all the members of the family. Mrs. Bennet wept, as was her habit, and made Kitty promise a dozen times to write whenever she could; Jane and Lizzie, too, repeated this promise, and also added open invitations to Netherfield and Pemberley respectively. "Just because you are married, does not mean you may neglect us," Lizzie warned her sister playfully. "If you do not write, we shall all have to come visit at once, and give you a great deal of trouble."

Mr. Bennet gave his daughter a very fond embrace, and remarked that while his new son-in-law was not so interesting as he might have hoped, at least he did not make his living at the gambling-tables. Oliver, by now at least somewhat accustomed to his father-in-law's odd humor, interpreted this as a compliment, and thanked Mr. Bennet very politely.

Mary was perhaps the most affected out of everybody, for Kitty's departure meant that she was now the last Miss Bennet at Longbourn; and more importantly than this, she knew that she should miss her sister terribly. She and Kitty embraced for a very long moment, and when they pulled back, they were both a little tearful.

"You must visit at Larkhall," Kitty said. "Anytime you like, you are welcome to come and stay with us."

"You are indeed," Oliver agreed. "I am afraid we have not a pianoforte, but I am sure you would be welcome to use the one at the rectory."

"And I will only make you attend a ball every _other_ evening," Kitty added, grinning, "and will limit myself to only a dozen declarations of how plain your clothes are."

Mary laughed at this, wiping away her tears. "I shall be sure to pack all my plainest things," she promised, "so as to give you plenty of opportunity to amuse yourself."

Kitty embraced her again. "I shall miss you, Mary," she whispered, pressing a kiss to her sister's cheek.

"You will be too busy to miss me," Mary answered. "But I will write to you, and I will come and stay and read your novels."

"Anytime Mamma's nerves give you trouble," Kitty said, "you are welcome."

Mary laughed again, and there seemed to be nothing more to say; so they separated, and Oliver handed Kitty into the coach before following her.

"Goodbye!" everyone cried. Sophia, in her father's arms, waved vigorously, and the Bingley twins, lifted into the air, kicked their chubby legs and swung their chubby arms in farewell, and Mrs. Bennet waved her handkerchief as if signaling a passing ship. The Finches, too, waved and called their goodbyes until they went around a bend in the drive, and were at last out of sight of the house.

Kitty leaned back against the coach seat, watching the well-known trees rush by the windows; then they turned onto the road that led away from Meryton, and she turned her thoughts, and her gaze, to her husband.

"What is it?" Oliver asked, catching her study. Kitty smiled.

"I was only thinking," she said carelessly, "of how very much I love you."

He blushed, and his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

"And I was thinking," she added, "of how very lovely that tea-service shall look upon the table in the sitting-room."

Oliver laughed. "That thought I shall leave to your discretion," he said, "but as to the other thought: I love you too, very much indeed."

Kitty smiled, and nestled against him, glad to feel the warmth of his arm about her shoulders and the press of his lips to the top of her head. Every mile they passed brought them a little closer to their home—the home they would make together—and the thought made her happy than she thought anybody had any right to be.

* * *

Mrs. Bennet had watched the coach go around the bend with no small degree of sadness. It is never agreeable for a mother, whose entire life has been spent in the raising of her children, to bid one of those children farewell; and it was even less agreeable now, with four daughters grown and gone away from home, and most of them quite far away indeed. Mrs. Bennet sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

But, she thought, it was certainly a good thing for Kitty; perhaps Mr. Finch was not so charming or so dashing as some other gentlemen; certainly he was no Mr. Bingley in temperament, and certainly he was no Mr. Darcy in fortune; he did not even have the advantage of a fashionable profession and a pleasant disposition, like Mr. Wickham. But Kitty seemed fond enough of him, and he of her, and at least they should probably never be poor. And it was certainly something for a woman to have found fine husbands for so many daughters; she may not have been able to provide her husband with a son, but she had found him plenty of sons-in-law!

Besides which, there was still work to do; and with this thought in mind, she turned to look at Mary.

"I know you will miss your sister, my dear," she said, putting an arm about her middle daughter. "We shall all miss her, very much."

"I know, Mamma," Mary replied, smiling at her.

"But here is something that may distract you," Mrs. Bennet went on. "Lady Lucas tells me that Purvis Lodge is to be let, in spite of the state of the attics, by a family with two sons, neither of whom is married, but she assures me that both of them are _quite_ handsome. In fact I hear that—"

"Mamma," Mary interrupted, firmly, "I must warn you that none of this is any good, for I have already made up my mind that I shall marry only when it suits me to do so, and that my husband shall be of my own choosing. I am afraid that, having found husbands for four daughters out of five, you must endeavor to be satisfied with what you have so far accomplished."

Mrs. Bennet stared open-mouthed at her daughter, and prepared herself to make some stinging retort; but Mr. Bennet came up behind them then, and laid a hand upon each of their shoulders.

"There now, Mrs. Bennet," he said cheerfully, "you had better do as she requests, for our Mary is a scholar, and must therefore be considered very wise indeed. But indeed four out of five is no small feat, and I am sure it is no hardship to you to take pride in your achievement. Lady Lucas, after all, has only one married daughter out of three; and Mrs. Long and Mrs. Phillips have no daughters at all."

This Mrs. Bennet was forced to admit to, and pressed further, she agreed that the subject of Mary's marriage might be let alone—at least for now. Nobody was under any illusions that it would not resurface once the glow of Kitty's wedding was gone, but for the present they were all content.

And so Mr. Bennet offered his wife one arm, and his daughter the other; and the others having already gone in to sit down, the last Miss Bennet and her fond parents turned together, and went into the house.

* * *

**Author's Note:** And it's done! Apologies for the delay (grad school, grrr), but a million billion trillion thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I love hearing your thoughts and suggestions, and I am so grateful that you've all taken the time to get to know these characters with me. If I've managed to give anyone any amusement, I'm satisfied! I am planning a sequel to this one (I know, right? What am I even doing? _Miss de Bourgh in Bath_ was supposed to be an aberration...), although I'm not sure exactly when it will be published. So keep your eyes peeled, and in the meantime, happy reading!


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